Another Way
by Onesimus42
Summary: An AU version of what could have happened if Elsie Hughes had made different choices in her life. Winner of a Highclere Award
1. A Kindness

**_This is an AU version of what could have happened if Elsie Hughes had made other choices in her life. I have had this story germinating for a while and wanted to throw it out there to see if it was worth continuing. _**

**_Disclaimer: As always, I don't own them, earn nothing from them but pleasure, and may return them when I finish._**

**March, 1913 Ripon**

Charles Carson almost sighed in relief as he walked down the street, even if there was a light drizzle. It had been weeks since he'd taken any time away from the house, and he had been exceedingly grateful to Mr. Branson for allowing him to ride along on his way to Ripon, allowing himself to put a little distance between himself and Downton. He'd have to find his own way back, but that would be no trouble. Just being away from Downton and having very little chance to see anyone from the house, especially that odious housekeeper, made him feel that a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. She was far too familiar with him, and the thought of spending another half-day with her constantly interrupting his solitude was almost more than he could bear. He even allowed himself the pleasure of humming softly under his breath. After quickly making one or two purchases which were nearly impossible in the village, he went in search of a tea shop to settle down for the afternoon and make good headway on his latest book. Mr. Chesterton was always sure to please, none of that fanciful nonsense that Mr. Wells spouted.

He actually walked past the tea shop on his first pass. The front window had changed. The name was the same; _Mrs. Beeton's Tea and Cakes_, but now the display was different. It had been well over eighteen months since he'd visited the shop, but he hadn't known Mrs. Beeton to change the display in the fifteen years that he'd been frequenting her establishment. It wasn't a bad display. On the contrary, it was quite nice, but it was different and that didn't bode well. The window also glistened brightly. It had never been unclean, he would never have eaten here if it had, but now the glass reflected what little bit of sunlight there was brightly, almost mirror-like in intensity. He stood in front for a moment, wondering if he should seek a different establishment but then the drizzle turned into a light rain so he decided to take his chances. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door, wondering what he might find.

He noticed the girls first and foremost, or at least what they were wearing. Before, the two serving girls had worn simple dresses and neat but mismatched aprons. Now they both wore dark skirts, and white aprons which appeared to be starched nearly as stiff as his collars. Again, it wasn't that it was bad, he even approved of the matching clothes which made them look more professional, but it was different and that put his nerves on edge. The tea shop wasn't crowded at the moment, but then he was here at an odd hour. From the slightly harried look of the two serving girls, he had the impression that they'd been quite busy earlier. He frowned as he glanced across the room with its evenly placed tables to the spot where Mrs. Beeton usually sat on a stool only to see that it was empty. His confusion was so great that he missed the first words spoken to him. He looked down at the petite woman by his side and said, "I beg your pardon."

"I asked, sir," she said with a soft Scottish burr and pleasant smile, "if you would like a table for one or will others be joining you?"

"Oh, um," he replied, coming back to himself and shaking his head slightly to clear his fog, "For one, please."

"If you'll follow me, please," she said, turning around. He followed her with pleasure and couldn't help letting his eyes drift down. He might be an old and stuffy butler, but he always appreciated that view of nearly every woman.

She glanced back at him and her eyes dropped to the book tucked under his arm. Leading him over to a corner table, she asked, "Will this be satisfactory?"

"It will indeed," he agreed and rubbed the top of his ear, "Um, I'm sure you may be very busy later, but will it be terribly inconvenient if I…?" His voice trailed off, and he lifted his book.

She smiled at him, "We are seldom that busy, sir. You are welcome to remain for as long as you like. Now Mr.—"

"Carson," he supplied.

"Mr. Carson, if you will be seated I would be glad to take your order," she said.

A tingle ran down his spine as her voice rolled over the R in his name. He shook his head, "Mrs. –"

"Burns"

"Mrs. Burns, I could never sit in the presence of a lady," he answered solemnly.

She laughed and his heart leapt, "I am no lady, Mr. Carson, merely the manager of a tea shop."

"Nevertheless," he inclined his head and waited patiently.

She sighed and he thought she caught herself just short of rolling her eyes at him, "Very well. It would seem we are at an impasse."

"I'll have a single pot of tea and two sandwiches of your choosing," he said to end the stand off.

"Nothing sweet?" she asked, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"No, I shouldn't," he began, then corrected himself, "but perhaps if there is any apple tart?" he finished hopefully.

Her very blue eyes twinkled even more, "And one apple tart."

He bowed formally to hide his smile, and she turned on her heel to glide away from him. Watching her swaying hips until she pushed through the door to the kitchens, he smiled to himself as he sat down. A fine lady indeed.

He was soon enough lost in his book and was not quite sure how much time had passed before he glanced up to see that he was the only patron left in the shop. Actually, the only other occupant of the room was Mrs. Burns who was seated with a book before her but watching him with a curious expression. He rose quickly, folding his napkin neatly beside his plate. "I apologize madam. I've lost all track of time and kept you late."

She rose as well, but shook her head at him with a bemused smile, "It's no trouble. Everything is settled except your little table, and I haven't far to go. Besides, I'd not send anyone out in this." She nodded toward the front window, and he saw with dismay that the light rain was now pouring down. He berated himself for his stupidity in not bringing an umbrella.

She followed his gaze and answered his grimace, "You're welcome to stay here a little longer to wait for a break in the weather if you don't mind my clearing your table."

"That would be most welcome, but I wouldn't want to keep you from your family," he said.

Her face fell and her eyes dropped to the table, "I have no family, at least none here."

He had no idea why his heart stuttered at hearing that, but he was breathless for the barest moment. "I see," he said and lifted his teapot, cup and saucer before starting toward the kitchen.

"Mr. Carson," she said quickly, "You mustn't do that. You're a customer."

He turned back to her stiffly and arched his eyebrow, "I will gladly pay you for my tea, but you must let me help with the clearing up to pay for my shelter and your extra time."

She raised a matching eyebrow at him but gave a short nod before gathering up his plate and flatware. As they stepped into the kitchen, she asked, "Valet or butler."

"I beg your pardon." He asked, "Is it that obvious?"

"Perhaps not to everyone," she smiled as she placed her burden in the sink and turned on the water, "But I was in service once myself. Not many clerks would have time off in the middle of the week. You're dressed well, but not as well as a man of leisure. You're a bit too neat to be a chauffer and a bit too sure of yourself to be a footman. My guess would be butler, but you could be a valet with footman's training. It's your half day I suppose?"

He barked out a laugh as he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Are you sure your name isn't Holmes? I'm a butler, but have you detected where?" he asked archly.

She clicked her tongue at him, "You needn't do that, Mr. Carson. I can do the washing up myself."

"I believe we'd agreed that I need to compensate you for your time," he said, fixing her with a steady gaze, "And it would be worth wet hands to find out if you know where I am the butler."

She relented and handed him a drying towel before beginning to wash the dishes while she reasoned out loud, "Not a place in town or close to town. I'd have seen you before. That suit looks London made, so I'd guess your family goes up for the Season."

He chuckled and nodded, "Correct and correct. Um, I think you missed a spot here." He passed the plate back to her and felt a jolt when her fingers brushed his.

She blushed and looked down at the water, "A large establishment, I think. You carry yourself with a great deal of dignity. There's a baronet, Sir Anthony I believe, near Downton. No; I don't think that's quite right."

He kept silent while he watched her hands make slow circles on the dishes. Her arm occasionally brushed his, and he found he didn't mind the contact at all.

"Downton Abbey," she exclaimed with a sudden burst of inspiration. "You're a butler at Downton Abbey."

"No," he said gravely but with a hint of a smile on his lips, "I am **the** butler of Downton Abbey, at your service madam." He sketched a slight bow.

"Perhaps Holmes was the name I was born with," she said, smiling broadly at him and taking the drying towel from his hands. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Carson, butler of Downton Abbey, but I should never have let you dry dishes. I'm sure it's beneath you to do such."

He scoffed and returned her smile, "I'm not the butler here. This kitchen is your domain, and it was well worth it to see your skills in action."

Their eyes met in mutual amusement, and he felt suddenly breathless again. His heart stuttered for a moment and then began to beat rapidly. Coming to himself with a start, he drew his watch from his pocket, "Weather or not, I'm going to be forced to leave soon if I want to catch the last bus."

She smoothed her hand down the front of her apron, "Yes, of course, let's go see if the rain's stopped."

He rolled his sleeves down slowly and drew his jacket back on, wishing that he could think of another excuse to stay or of a way to get back to Downton that didn't involve him leaving at just this moment. He followed her back into the dining room, letting his eyes drift down to enjoy the view, to see that the rain hadn't slowed a bit. He already dreaded leaving almost as much as the drenching that he was sure to get.

"Mrs. Burns," he said quietly, "I hope that it wouldn't be too much of an imposition for me to occupy that table again on my next half day. This afternoon has been the most peaceful and enjoyable one that I have had for a long while."

She met his eyes with genuine warmth, "Customers are always welcome, Mr. Carson."

He cleared his throat, "Yes, well, I see. I really must be off. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Burns."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Carson," she said softly, eyes fixed on his shoulder.

He placed his hat carefully on his head and started to open the door when she stopped him.

"Wait," she said, hand on his arm. He turned to see that her other hand held an umbrella. "Take this. People are always leaving them, and you can see I have quite a collection."

He looked at the stand beside the door to see that indeed there were at least three other umbrellas there.

Still he protested, "Mrs. Burns, it really wouldn't be proper for me to take…"

"It would only be a loan, Mr. Carson," she said, meeting his gaze steadily, "Until your next half day."

"Very well, I shall see you in a fortnight," he said, taking the umbrella from her, fingers brushing along the back of her knuckles, "Until then, Mrs. Burns."

_**Reviews are welcome as always, even if it is just to tell me to stop.**_


	2. A Warmth

_**I'm glad you enjoy this little AU. Elsie's POV is always more difficult for me so I hope you continue to find it interesting.**_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't rent them, have no rights to them, earn nothing from them.**_

**Two weeks later**

As she got ready for the day, Elsie glanced at her calendar and felt a ridiculous fluttering in her chest. It was Thursday, and not just any Thursday. It had been a fortnight. She wondered if he would return. For a moment, she regretted giving in to the impulse to loan him the umbrella, but something about him made her want to take care of him, silly man that he was for coming out in the English spring weather without protection. He had provided her with a pleasant afternoon's conversation and that had been sorely lacking in her life recently. It didn't seem fair to send him out to get drenched if there was anything she could do to prevent it.

She walked downstairs to the tea shop and as always went first into the dining room to see that everything was in order. Of course it was. She had left it that way last night; first to arrive and last to leave, fitting since she lived just up the stairs. Taking in the gleaming window and the neat tables, she allowed herself a twinge of pride. The tea shop had been out of sorts when she'd first walked into it over a year ago, and she'd been glad to do this service for Mrs. Beeton after all she'd done for her. She heard the back door open and knew that the girls had arrived to start the day. She unlocked the front door and turned the card, perhaps they would be so busy today that she wouldn't have time to watch for a tall man with steely gray hair and broad shoulders.

After their busy morning, Elsie glanced at the watch pinned to her dress, then the empty corner table, and then to the door. Two weeks, he'd said, and somehow she thought he was a man of his word. Last week when she'd gone to Thirsk, she had happened to look at the bus schedule, not on purpose at all. It was purely happenstance that she'd noticed when the bus arrived from Downton. If he was coming by bus then he should arrive around one o'clock. She smoothed her dress down. This was ridiculous. She had no business being interested in the comings and goings of any man. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. What was it about him that had her so intrigued? Silly git. It probably had something to do with the fact that he was just over eight feet tall with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a voice that sounded like chocolate silk. Not to mention his hands. She could remember his long fingers gripping his book, wrapped around his tea cup, and brushing her knuckles as she gave him the plate. There was still the faint hint of a tingle running from the tips of her fingers to her spine when she remembered that touch.

No. She told herself firmly once again. She had no right. He was just a customer. A pleasant customer who left a generous tip and had the most gorgeous hazel eyes flecked with green, but he was still just a customer. If he did come today, she would be sure to let Molly serve him. She could use the extra money with her mother ill.

Actually, he probably wasn't even coming today. He could just as easily go to Thirsk or for a walk on this pleasant spring day. Once she'd convinced herself that he definitely was not coming, the bell over the door chimed, and she glanced toward it to see him enter. His hazel eyes traveled around the room and warmed considerably when they met hers. She noticed absently that they seemed greener today. As he was hanging his hat on the rack by the door, she glanced down at her watch to see that it was only five past one o'clock. He must have hurried to get here so quickly from the bus stop. Perhaps she wasn't the only anxious one.

After she'd greeted him and accepted the return of the borrowed umbrella, she led him to the corner table. She saw that he'd brought a different book this week but by the same author. This man was set in his ways. He smiled at her warmly, "I see that you did remember. Thank you."

"Not at all, Mr. Carson," she said and then leaned toward him conspiratorially, "I also may have put back a piece of apple tart for you, if you'd like?"

"Lovely," he answered, smile broadening, "and perhaps some of your excellent sandwiches as well." He remained standing politely and watching her expectantly. She wondered if he had something else to say then she remembered his over-developed sense of propriety but chose to find it endearing instead of exasperating. Moving off with an inclination of her head, she took his order to the kitchen and left Molly to serve him. There were other customers for her to attend to after all.

For the rest of the afternoon, she only glanced in his direction occasionally to ensure herself that he was comfortable. At least that is what she told herself. She also admired his erect posture even while he was reading and the small furrow between his brows as he concentrated on a difficult passage, and of course the hands that turned the page so carefully. On one of the occasions that she was checking on his comfort, he happened to look up and meet her eyes. Their eyes held for a moment and she admired the crinkle at the corners when he smiled. On another occasion, she glanced over to see that he was watching her with a curious expression, but he quickly turned his gaze back to his book. Finally, when the dining room was empty and she had let Molly and Anna go home, she made her way back to his corner and began to change the cloths on the tables near his.

He carefully marked his place in his book and lay it down beside his plate, before clearing his throat to get her attention, "I must thank you for saving the apple tart for me, Mrs. Burns. It was as delicious as I remembered."

"It was no trouble, Mr. Carson," she answered quickly, "Anything to make a customer happy."

"I see," he said, looking down at his book with a frown and trailing his finger over the gilt lettering.

She watched him for a moment and then realized with a start that the dear sweet man just wanted a friend. There was no shame in that. After all, she could use a friend as well. Surely there would be no harm in being friendly, would there? "I may perhaps have had to do one or two favors for Mrs. Johnstone to secure that piece though. I am glad you appreciate it."

"I did appreciate it Mrs. Burns. Very much," he said, looking at her with such a warm smile that her cheeks heated and her heart skipped a beat. Then his gaze dropped back to his book and he said, very casually, "Perhaps I should help you with the clearing up again today. In payment for your trouble," he clarified quickly.

Her cheeks grew more heated, but she found herself smiling, "Perhaps you should."

She reached for the plate on his table, but he stopped her with his hand on hers. There was no jolt this time only a warm feeling that spread up her arm. When he stood and she looked up and up into his eyes, the thought came to her that she was playing with fire by trying to be friends with someone she was so attracted to and who evidently found her attractive as well. As she admired the deep color of his eyes, however, she wasn't altogether sure that she minded if she got burned.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	3. A Friend

_**A slight time jump. I'm glad you enjoy it and appreciate your reviews. I apologize for not answering them each, but I'm working hard to stay ahead on this story. **_

Charles drank the last of his tea, carefully timed to match the closing of the shop. He marked his place in the book and lay it down on the table before looking up to see Mrs. Burns settling with Molly and Anna. After Mrs. Burns had revealed Molly's difficulties at home to him, he always made sure to give her a more generous than usual tip, and both girls seemed to take him as a fixture in the shop every other Thursday now. Once the girls were out the door and the card was turned, he rose to pick up his saucer, cup, and teapot while the manager made her way to his side.

"Mr. Carson, if I've told you once," she said, clicking her tongue at him.

He cut her off with a snort, "No; you've definitely told me a hundred times, but I thought we agreed last time that I'm a customer until the card is turned. After that…"

"You're just a friend," she finished for him, "Very well then, friend. Come into the kitchen and help with the clearing up."

He smiled at her back as they walked into the kitchen and said, "I thought you'd appreciate knowing that you were right. I did enjoy it more than I thought I would."

"You're admitting that you were wrong," she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder, "I'll have to mark the day in my diary. 'Charles Carson, butler of Downton Abbey was wrong.' That's a rare day."

He chuckled, "I did not say that I was wrong. I merely admitted that you were right. I had read those books when I was a boy, you know. I just never thought they would seem so different when I read them from the perspective of an adult. Captain Nemo is an interesting fellow. Mad, but interesting." As he spoke, he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

She nodded as she filled the sink with water. "He created his own private world didn't he," she said, "a safe world, even if it was _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_."

She reached up to brush the hair on her left cheek behind her ear, and Charles noticed the well-healed scar running from the edge of her jaw to just behind her ear. He'd never seen it before, and it surprised him so much that he lost his train of thought and stared at it for a moment too long. She turned to him when he didn't speak right away and noticed where his gaze was drawn. Pulling her hair back down quickly to cover it, she spoke, "It's only a little scar and long healed; nothing to trouble you, Mr. Carson."

"No, of course not, I apologize for my rudeness," he said. "It's only that," he hesitated for a moment, "that must have been quite painful."

She quietly concentrated on placing the dishes in the sink for so long that he sorely regretted saying anything. Finally, she spoke softly, concentrating on washing the dish in her hand, "Pain fades just as scars do, and you shouldn't apologize for being concerned. Concern is only proper between friends."

"Only proper," he agreed and picked up his drying towel to work by her side, forgetting all about the book they'd been discussing. They worked silently, and he took the time to savor the companionship while his mind turned her words over in his head.

They were nearly done when he spoke again, "Is that why you like that book so much? Did you need to find a safe place?"

She took her hands from the water and then the towel from his hands, drying her own carefully. Then she turned toward him fully and looked up into his eyes. There was enough sadness in them that he already had his answer.

"I believe that this is a safe place, don't you?" she asked with a gentle smile.

"It is," he answered decisively, "It's just that I don't like to think of you…"

"Then don't Mr. Carson," she cut him off with a raised hand, "I am safe now and will remain so. The past is in the past."

He wondered for a moment if she was trying to convince herself and silently vowed to do everything in his power to ensure that she remained secure. Out loud, he decided to turn the conversation, "I'm sure that Mrs. Beeton appreciates all you've done here. You've made quite a change."

"You knew the shop before?" she asked sharply.

"Yes, of course," he said, "But I suppose you'd have no way of knowing that. I used to come fairly often, once every two months or so at least, but with one thing and another… Before I came in to escape the rain two months ago, it had probably been well over a year since I'd set foot through the door."

"Ahh well," she said, moving to sit at the kitchen table and indicating that he should do the same, "We just missed each other and not for the first time. I came to Mrs. Beeton needing help at just about that time, and she obliged. She was obviously failing, though, and I could see that she needed help as well. So, I helped." She finished with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Then Mrs. Beeton still owns the shop?" he asked, "I haven't seen her here. I suppose I just assumed that you were the owner now."

"You're only here one day out of every fourteen, Mr. Carson," she chided gently, fingers tracing the pattern of the tablecloth, "But, you are right in that her visits to the shop are rarer. The shop makes enough to keep her in her home and with a nurse. My salary is my room upstairs and board with just a little more."

"I see," Not that different from being in service, he thought, momentarily disconcerted by learning that she lived just upstairs. He tried desperately not to look at the stairs that led to her bedroom but failed, and then he remembered something she'd said. "You said it wasn't the first time we'd just missed each other. What did you mean by that?"

"You remember that I said I was once in service myself? Once upon a time I applied for and was accepted as the head housemaid at your Downton Abbey, but…" She glanced down at her bare left hand.

"But you accepted a different offer," he supplied, fingers drumming a rhythm on the table, "Was that around ten years ago?"

"Eleven would be more correct," she said.

"It wouldn't have been a bad position for you," he smiled, hand stilling for a moment before tracing the pattern on the tablecloth, "Mrs. Dunsmore retired not long after when the old Earl died. The head housemaid took her position. You'd have to have been better than that disaster," he finished grimly.

She hid her smile by looking down at her lap. He supposed he had provided her with a few too many amusing stories of his battles with the housekeepers over the years, but he couldn't help teasing her, "You shouldn't mock me, Mrs. Burns. I have suffered much."

She flinched when he said her name, and he frowned at her in confusion. Answering his look with a dismissive shake of her head, she said, "Mr. Carson, I would like to leave that name behind, at least when I'm with you. Would you please call me Elsie?"

His cheeks flamed and he wondered if he dare take that liberty, then he remembered the sad expression in her eyes earlier, "Yes, of course, Elsie, but then you must call me Charles."

"Charles," she said and smiled around his name. His cheeks warmed even more at the way her voice rolled over the 'R'. He began to wonder if he was playing with fire, but decided he didn't mind at all if he got burned.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	4. A Visit

_**Another time jump to move the story along a bit. By the way, to clear up any confusion my 'Anna' is not Anna Smith Bates. I'm just as uncreative with names as Fellowes.**_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own them, wish I did. Don't earn money from them and use them solely for pleasure. **_

**Ripon, July, 1913**

Elsie smoothed her hand over her front pocket and felt the very slight stiffness of the letter it held. She couldn't help the small smile as she thought of the pleasure that she would take from reading it later. With a shake of her head, she chastised herself. If she had been wise, she wouldn't have had Anna pick up the post so early, but his letters always came on Tuesdays and Fridays, and she couldn't resist the urge to have this small part of him in her possession as soon as possible. She smiled again with the thought that his letters were as predictable as the man himself. He would open by commenting on her last letter, a few lines of argument about the book they were discussing; he found Mr. Wells to be far too fanciful but had indulged her choice this time. Then, he would write some lines about London, tell a bit of household gossip; his descriptions of the staff had her feeling as though she almost knew them. If she was lucky he might even include a sketch, his attention to detail and careful nature had made him a passable artist. Finally, he would end by asking about the shop, Mrs. Johnstone, Mrs. Beeton's health, and the girls. Somehow he always seemed to be genuinely interested in her life, not just asking as a polite afterthought, and she took genuine pleasure in answering him.

There was something comforting in knowing someone so steady and unchanging. He was a rock, a firm foundation. If he hadn't chosen a life of service and solitude then someone could have built a nice home on that foundation, but he'd made it very clear that his life was devoted to Downton Abbey, and he intended to serve there until he died and 'haunt it ever after'. That attitude suited her fine, and she was glad to have him as her friend, knowing that he was safe. He was too good of a man to take more from her than she was able to give. He would not, probably could not, ever take advantage of her. A good man. That was what he was, probably the last good man on earth in her experience. A cloud formed over her thoughts as she reflected that she probably knew this man better after just four months than she had known the man she married after twelve years. She quickly pulled her thoughts away from those dark corners with the reminder that she had a shop to run and moved over to check on the comfort of a group of ladies.

Finally, the long day was nearing its end. The last of the customers had settled his bill. Molly and Anna were clearing the crockery away. Mrs. Johnstone had already left to cook dinner for her own family. Soon she would be able to lock the door, turn the card, and sit down in the kitchen with a cup of tea, the steak pie the cook had left her, and his letter. She almost groaned in frustration when the door opened and was ready to send the customer who dared to come so late on his way when she realized that the bowler on this customer's head looked familiar and was familiarly far away from the ground. For once, she couldn't keep her surprise or her pleasure from her voice as she walked over to greet him, "Charles! I thought you were going to be in London for at least another month."

He smiled at her and watched her eyes for a moment before answering, "There was some pressing business at Downton that required my attention, so I've come home for a few days."

"This is not Downton, sir," she couldn't help teasing while she hung his light traveling coat on the rack.

"I saw no reason that I shouldn't depart my train in Ripon and catch the bus to Downton later. There's nothing I can do there until tomorrow morning anyway."

Her cheeks grew warm from the way he was looking at her. His eyes had been on her face since the moment he'd walked through the door, and silly git that she was, she couldn't seem to control her smile. The awkwardness between them was briefly broken by the girls returning from the kitchen with surprised but knowing smiles when they saw Charles. Elsie saw the smirk on Anna's face when she spotted the case by the door but thought better of offering an explanation. That would likely only make matters worse. It took only a few moments to settle with them, lock the door behind them, and turn the card in the window. She paused to catch her breath and then turned back to Charles to see that he was rubbing the top of his ear vigorously.

"I'm terribly sorry. I shouldn't have presumed," he was nearly stammering, "I just wanted very much to see… and I thought that you… I'll leave now. I can stop by in a few days before I return to London if you wish."

"You will not," she said firmly, unwilling to cause him distress.

He looked at her in disappointment, having misunderstood. "I won't?"

"I mean you won't leave," she clarified; glad to see his relieved smile. "We are friends, and a friend should feel free to come by whenever he is able."

His smile returned, and he ended the relentless assault on the top of his ear. Pulling his watch from his pocket, he made a show of checking the time, "Very well. I have at least an hour before the last bus, and an hour with a friend would be most welcome."

She nodded and turned to lead him toward the kitchen. He cleared his throat, "I don't suppose there would be a bit of apple tart? I missed my lunch."

Turning back to look at him over her shoulder, she asked, "You missed your lunch? Do you have no one to look after you in London?"

"No one," he answered seriously, "But this was all my own doing. I hurried to catch the train so that I could be here before you closed."

"All that hurry just for a cup of tea?" she teased.

His tone was serious when he answered, "And the company." When her eyes shied away from his, he added lightly, "And the apple tart, of course."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but we've no apple tart today," she said, then glanced up to meet his eyes again, "but I'd be glad to share my steak pie and a cup of tea." After the briefest of pauses, she added, "I hope the company won't disappoint."

"Never," he answered and added with an air of long-suffering, "I suppose I'll have to help with the clearing up as payment for the pie and tea."

"Always," she laughed, glad to be on familiar, teasing ground.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	5. A Surprise

_**Disclaimer: I still don't own them, but am thinking of a Twitter/Tumblr/write-in campaign. I promise they'd have way more fun with me.**_

**Ripon—September, 1913**

Charles gazed through the window of the shop while the owner was wrapping his purchase. It wasn't his usual day, but he wondered if he might chance stopping by the tea shop. It was closed on Mondays, but perhaps he'd be able to at least see Elsie for a moment. If he didn't see her today, it would likely be at least another fortnight. The family would return from Scotland this Thursday so this would be his only time off this week. It surprised him how much that bothered him. He had never minded missing half days before. Actually, he could remember long stretches of time when he would remain at Downton on his half day doing some bit of pressing work, strolling on a forgotten path, or relaxing in his room with a book. Now, however, he had not missed coming to Ripon for his time off in months except for those impossibly long weeks of the Season spent in London, and he knew the reason; a pleasant woman with a sharp tongue, sharper mind, bright smile and brilliant eyes. He was captured, and it frightened him more than just a little. Having spent the last two and a half decades of his life avoiding emotional entanglements of any kind, he now had no idea how to proceed but desperately wanted to.

As his mind was mulling over his predicament, he spotted the back of a woman in a deep blue coat as she crossed the street in front of the shop. He would know that view of his woman no matter what type of coat she was wearing. She had two shopping baskets, and while she didn't seem to be struggling at all, he still didn't like to see her alone with such a burden. He grabbed his package from the shopkeeper, blurted a few words of gratitude, and hurried out the door to attempt catching her; only so that he could help her of course. Since she had no idea she was being pursued, she stopped occasionally to look into the windows of shops and speak politely to people along the way. It only took a few minutes and dodging one or two passers-by to catch her. Admiring her profile while she spoke to an older woman, he paused to catch his breath. She faltered when she glanced his way but ended her conversation gracefully before turning to him.

"Did I look at my calendar wrong or have you changed your half day?" She didn't seem the least upset about seeing him and that made his heart as glad as anything she could have said.

"Neither," he answered grimly when he thought of his lost half day in her company, "The family has been away and will return on Thursday so I won't really have a half day this week. I had a necessary purchase to make, however, so I am here."

"So I won't see you for at least another two weeks," she said and his heart soared at the tinge of sadness there. She shook her head and smiled, "As you can see, I am making a few purchases as well."

He looked down at the two baskets she held. "I did see, and I wondered if I could help you with your burden. I would enjoy the walk."

She handed him one of the baskets but kept the other. He frowned at her, "Elsie, I am more than capable of carrying two baskets."

"I am sure that you are," she said and he didn't miss her quick darting glance at his arms and hands, "but you have your own burden to carry."

He looked down at the package in his hand, and his cheeks heated when he remembered the contents, but he said, "It's light, and if you wouldn't mind my putting it in your basket for a time, then I could easily carry both."

She shook her head and blushed brightly, "No. I should carry this basket Charles." When he continued to look at her in confusion, she sighed and leaned toward him to whisper, "It has purchases of a personal nature."

Oh. That was… Well…. He hadn't thought of that. Now his cheeks, ears, and other parts were flaming. It certainly wouldn't be appropriate for his… to be in the same basket with her… That wouldn't be at all proper. He cleared his throat and spoke somewhat normally, "I see. Perhaps we should start walking now."

She seemed to be fighting a smile, "That would probably be for the best." As she started to walk by his side, he couldn't help the quick glance he stole down at the basket in her hand as he imagined the contents.

He soon found that there were benefits to having one hand free. For example, he was able to put that hand on the small of her back to guide through an area where the sidewalk narrowed and able to feel a shudder run through her when he left that hand in place for a moment longer than necessary. As their steps fell into rhythm, a plan began to form.

"Elsie, there is another tea shop in town," he began.

She looked up at him through her lashes, "Are you thinking of leaving us?"

"Not at all," he answered forcefully, "It's just that I thought that, well, I'm hungry, and you might need to check out the competition."

She looked at him thoughtfully, lower lip caught between her teeth, "I don't think that would do at all. I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

He sighed and clenched his jaw, fixing his gaze on the sidewalk ahead. She continued thoughtfully, "No; if someone saw me there, they might think I was considering changing jobs or that our food wasn't good enough. I have another idea if you wouldn't mind a walk."

If his smile was a little broader than usual, it was likely because of his overwhelming sense of relief, "I wouldn't mind a walk at all. What is your idea?"

They had arrived at the tea shop now, and she led him through the alley to the back door, speaking over her shoulder, "I have a Thermos. I have the means to make sandwiches. It is probably one of the last pretty days we'll have this year. Surely we could put a little something together to take to the park."

"Apple tart?" he asked hopefully, pausing to hold the door for her and then carrying the basket to the table.

"We will have to see," she laughed, lighting the stove. He spotted a kettle on a shelf above her and reached up to pull it down, body pressing against hers for just a moment.

She took a deep breath and her eyes dropped to his shoulder. He was certain he could feel her trembling against him. She took a step back, "If you fill that, I will see what I can find."

He shook his head to shake his thoughts into order, "Yes, of course, that would make the most sense." Stepping over to the tap to fill the kettle, he wondered if he should speak his mind now or wait until they were on their impromptu picnic.

As he put the kettle on the stove, she spoke softly, "Please be careful you don't get burned Charles."

"I will, Elsie," he answered, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, "Very careful."

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	6. A Picnic

_**Disclaimer: I don't own them. I only torture them for free.**_

**A park bench in Ripon-September, 1913**

The air was cool around her, but the cup was warm in her hands, and she let her face hover over it to catch the steam and heat the tip of her nose. The Thermos worked surprisingly well. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, she had neglected to bring a second mug, and they were forced to share the cup from the top of the Thermos between them. There was something comfortably intimate about passing it back and forth. Charles didn't seem to mind at all. He actually smiled a little each time he took a sip. She knew this because she watched his lips on the cup from the corner of her eye. An involuntary shiver ran through her which unfortunately drew his attention.

"Are you cold?" he asked, concern filling his voice. Before she could answer, he had moved the basket containing their food from between them and shifted so that he was right beside her, arm and thigh lying alongside hers. "Would you like my coat?"

"No," she replied and cursed herself mentally for her shaky voice, "I am quite warm enough now. I just had a disturbing thought." She cursed herself again as she predicted his next question.

"And what has disturbed you?" he asked.

"You," she said and then shook her head at her own stupidity, "or rather the lack of you. That is, winter is coming, and I'm sure you won't be able to travel as easily. I will miss our chats."

He frowned, clearly not happy with the thought himself. "I would miss you as well, but I think there would be little that could keep me from coming to you."

"Ah, well, then I've nothing to worry about. Perhaps I should ask if anything has disturbed you. You've not eaten much," she smiled at him, glad to divert his attention, and took the cup so that she could hide her anxiety.

He looked down at the untouched sandwich on his lap and then took a small bite, watching her thoughtfully while he chewed. She didn't miss the way that his eyes were drawn down to her lips, and she took another sip to hide her smile. With a sigh, he turned from her to look out over the park. Her gaze followed his, but she focused on the dark clouds that were much closer than she would like. She had been too distracted before this to notice.

He stood and started to pack the remains of their lunch into the basket, "I think we should get you back to the shop before you're drenched. Whatever were you about not bringing an umbrella?"

She dashed out the last of the tea and screwed the cup into place on top of the Thermos. Then she looked at him in mock indignation, "I? I seem to remember this is not the first time you've been caught unprepared."

"I am not the one with at least four umbrellas by my front door," he said archly and took her elbow, lifting his impressive brows at her.

She couldn't think of a ready retort so she just rolled her eyes and let him guide her along as the first drops started to fall. The rain quickly turned from a few drops to a full downpour, and Charles moved his grasp from her elbow to her hand as he hurried their steps. She spotted the tree just after he did and struggled to keep up with him as he pulled her into a near run.

Once they were under its sheltering branches, he turned to her with worry in his voice and eyes crinkled in concern as he pulled his coat off, "You're drenched. You were already cold, now you'll catch your death."

She couldn't keep herself from smiling at his mothering while he put his coat around her shoulders. His fingers brushed the underside of her chin as he pulled the top of the coat together, and her smile disappeared. She couldn't hold in the gasp which escaped.

His eyes flicked up from her throat to meet hers and then down to her lips. Then she had no idea what he was looking at because she closed her eyes when his head tilted toward hers. His lips were covering hers; caressing, teasing, tasting. His arms were around her in an instant, hands moving over her back, and she was leaning against him, responding to the kiss with all the eagerness that she felt late at night in her dreams. Then, with a start she realized this was not a dream. It was reality and this was not right. She pushed against his chest and pulled her head away from his, backing away as far as the shelter of the tree would allow. He released her just as quickly as he had pulled her to him, and she turned away so that she could gather her thoughts.

She could hear him breathing heavily behind her, but he made no move toward her and she was incredibly grateful for his restraint. "Elsie, I apologize. I didn't mean to be so forward, but the day got the better of me. I just wanted to tell you, but I couldn't find the words. Forgive me, please. I would never want you to feel that I pushed myself on you."

"It's not that Charles," she began but he cut her off.

"I have guessed that your husband was," he hesitated, "not kind, and that your marriage was not a happy one. I know that it will take time, but surely you've realized by now that I care for you deeply. I'm willing to wait for you to be comfortable, as long as it takes. I would make no demands."

"Charles," she said more forcefully, "It is not you. I know that you would never…, that you would always be kind. You haven't understood. I am not free."

"Of course," he nodded, "You feel obligated to Mrs. Beeton. I respect that. As I said, there is no need to rush things."

She groaned in frustration, "You don't understand. I am not free because I _am_ married. My husband is still alive."

_**And the angst begins. Reviews are welcome as always. **_


	7. A Burn

_**I am still working hard on this story and hope for no delays. Thank you for sticking with this story.**_ _**It gets a bit melodramatic, but I still maintain that I could never beat out Fellowes on that score. **_

_**Disclaimer—Don't own them. Wish I did. I would never torture them. It would always be apple tart, fluff, and happiness if I did.**_

Married. Not _was_ married. Still married. Not a widow. Not free. Not free to love him or care for him in the way he cared for her. Not free for him to love. He stared at her back, anger welling up in him. She had lied to him, led him to believe that… Then he stopped that train of thought. Had she lied to him? She had never told him that she was a widow. He had assumed because she lived alone. And why would she be living alone? And as little more than a servant.

He had to clear his throat twice before he could speak, but his words were still hoarse, "What did he do to you?"

She swung to face him, and his heart broke to see the deep sadness of her eyes. Watching him for long moments while the rain fell off the leaves around them, she finally spoke, "Charles, that would take a long time to tell you and not here, not now."

The anger that he'd thought gone snapped back to the surface, "Then where and when? You have had ample opportunity."

Her jaw clenched and her eyes dropped to his shoes, apparently finding them fascinating. "I have never lied to you."

"No; you've not, but you've not been completely honest with me either," his own jaw clenched, "You have allowed me to fall… Do you have any idea what I feel for you?"

Her eyes rose to meet his, and he saw his emotions mirrored there. "Yes; I believe I do."

"I see," he looked away, at her feet, the tree, the leaves around them, the rain, at anything that would not be the pain in her eyes. With a deep sigh he said, "The rain seems to be slowing a bit. Perhaps we should make a run for the shop."

She swung his coat from her shoulders, "You should wear this. I'd not want you to catch your death either."

He took it from her silently and watched her while he shrugged into it. She was biting her lower lip, a sure sign that she had something important to say.

"Charles, would you have time…? That is…if you could stay for a little while, I will tell you all that I feel able."

He nodded shortly, not trusting himself to speak. Taking the basket in one hand, he hesitated and then offered her his free arm. It wasn't proper, but at the moment he was far past caring.

The rain had slackened to a drizzle but turned back into a downpour before they were halfway back to the shop. By the time they arrived, they were both thoroughly drenched despite their coats and hats.

He helped her remove her coat to hang it by the back door, fingers inadvertently brushing her neck. A shiver ran through her that he doubted was completely due to her cold, wet clothes. His eyes were drawn to the way that the wet fabric clung to her curves. Clenching his hands and jaw, he fought the urge to draw her into his arms and instead said, "You should go change into some dry things. I'll light a fire and heat water for tea."

She nodded and walked up the stairs without a word. After hanging his own dripping overcoat by the door, he removed his equally sodden jacket and hung it over a chair before lighting the stove. Running his hand through his hair to get the wet curls off his forehead, he looked around the familiar room that had been the source of so much pleasure over the past several months. He had felt comfortable, at ease in her presence in a way that he hadn't with anyone in years, perhaps even decades. His eyes lit on the package containing his purchases from earlier in the day, the necessary items that had been his excuse to come to Ripon so that he could chance seeing her. He glanced at the stairs. It would likely take her a long time to change completely. His face heated as he briefly imagined peeling off the layers of wet clothes. Then he forced his mind from that path. He had no right. She was not free. Not free for him to imagine or dream about.

With a sigh, he decided that at least one layer of his own clothes should be dry. He quickly had his collar, tie, waistcoat, and shirt off and was drawing his undershirt over his head when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Before he could get his chest covered, Elsie was in the room, "Charles! I was just-, I didn't think- and I wanted to bring you a towel.

He took the towel from her to at least in part cover the blush that he was sure was spreading from his cheeks halfway down his chest. The damp hair that hung around her shoulders and the way that she was staring at his chest certainly didn't help his composure at all. "I'm sorry. I had an undershirt in my purchases and, well, I thought at least one part of my body could be dry."

She swallowed quickly and turned away, "That makes perfect sense. You should leave your shirt by the fire so that it can dry before you put it back on."

He nodded, then realized that she was determinedly not looking at him, "Yes, of course. Are you finished? I mean…, your hair."

Her hand went to her head, "I should go put it up."

"Leave it down," he said perhaps too quickly, "I'm sure it will dry sooner if it's not bound."

She hesitated only for a moment before nodding and moving toward the stove and the now boiling kettle of water. As she wet the tea, Charles toweled off quickly and drew the dry undershirt over his head. He watched her put sugar- a little for her, a lot for him- and milk into two cups. This was what he wanted with her. Moments like this, moments of peace. Her hair was lovely; a warm, red color and she looked different with it down, softer. Lost in his thoughts he breathed out the word that came to him, "Claret."

She startled and splashed the hot water she had been pouring into the teapot onto her hand. He was to her in a single stride and had her hand under the tap with another step. "I only meant your hair is the color of claret. I didn't mean to startle you. Watch that you don't get burned, Elsie dear," he rumbled as he soothed the burn with cool water.

Her free hand went to her mouth, and she started to cry, "I think I already am."

He did the only thing he could think to do. He pulled her head to his chest and let her wet his dry undershirt with her tears.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	8. A Story

_**The melodrama continues. I'm glad that y'all are enjoying the story and finding it at least somewhat believable. **_

_**Disclaimer: I earn nothing from these guys. I do not own them. I only want to play with them and (eventually) make them happy.**_

He held her not as a man would hold his lover, but in the same way that her father had held her when she'd broken a favorite doll or as a friend would comfort the broken hearted. She had held her tears in for so long that she couldn't control her sobs. When she heard his ragged intake of breath and thought he might be close to tears himself, she was nearly completely undone. With great effort she slowly brought her weeping under control until she was only trembling against him. He held her tight against his chest, tracing patterns on her back, and she wished that it could always be this way. That she was free for him to comfort. But, she reminded herself, she was not free. She wondered if he had the same thought because his hands stilled on her back, and he stiffened. She straightened and pulled away when she felt the change.

He stepped to the chair that held his jacket and pulled the already damp handkerchief from his pocket, passing it to her. "A little wet, but I believe it will hold more," he smiled at her awkwardly.

She took it from him, "I apologize. I never meant to burden you. It's just that it's been weeks and weeks and…"

Strange that she was the one stammering while he seemed oddly calm. Perhaps he was still stunned. "Elsie, there's no need to apologize for crying. We are friends at least and friends may comfort each other. May they not?"

She turned back to the teapot to have something to occupy her hands, "Yes, they may." After pouring their tea and stirring each cup slowly, she whispered, "I don't know where to begin."

He reached around her, careful not to brush against her side, and took the cups on their saucers to the table. It destroyed her that they had to be so careful when everything had been so easy between them before. She watched him warily, waiting for the explosion that was sure to come, the explosion she would have expected before now if this was Joe. He looked back at her over his shoulder and nodded toward her usual seat, indicating that she should join him. Waiting for her to sit down, he sank gratefully into the chair opposite and took a sip of his tea, letting out a sigh of pleasure along with the smallest of smiles. It always gratified him that she remembered how he liked his tea, but it was amazing that he could be happy about something as mundane as that after the day they'd had. Not for the first time, she reminded herself that this was a good man, not prone to angry outbursts, not like Joe. When she had taken her first sip, he spoke, "I suppose the standard thing would be to begin at the beginning, but I believe that I would most like to know when you planned to tell me."

"When would you have had me tell you?" she said, frustrated with this impossible situation, "That first afternoon should I have said, 'Mr. Carson, I believe you should know that I ran away from my husband because he was a cruel man.' Or should I have waited until the next time when it was obvious you needed a friend just as much as I did. I could have told you how he kept me so isolated on the farm, not able to even write my sister, that my chats with you were the first normal adult conversation I'd had in years." Her voice had become progressively softer and she realized he was now leaning toward her to catch her words, "Or before you went away for the Season should I have told you that it was only when I was able to look forward to your visits that I could leave behind the terror that the next person who came through the door would be him?"

"Elsie," he said, voice cracking, "I had no idea." He covered her hand on the table, and she turned hers over so that she could cling to his fingers.

"You couldn't, could you?" she grimaced, eyes traveling around the room and free hand rubbing at her forehead. With a groan, she burst out with far more than she ever intended to say, "Why oh why could you have not just brought an umbrella that first time? I felt sorry for you, big little boy with no one to care for him; and then the next time you were so glad to see me, and then you came again, and I told myself that even though you were kind and good and funny and terribly handsome that I didn't need to worry. You didn't want anything more than friendship. You were a butler, and everyone knows butlers must be single. And I told myself that I didn't want anything more than friendship. I told myself that we would do quite well as friends, good friends, right up until that afternoon you came back early from London. Do you remember?"

"I remember," he sighed, "Those weeks in London without seeing you were some of the longest of my life. I seized on the first excuse to come home, to come here."

"No one who is only a friend feels what I felt when you walked through the door," she said softly, eyes fixing on his again.

He swallowed and lifted his cup to his lips. After clearing his throat again, he answered just as softly but with his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, "No butler has any right to be as anxious to see a woman as I was to see you that day."

They sat silently listening to the rain on the window for several minutes. Finally Charles spoke again, "Did he give you that scar?"

"Yes," she answered simply, unable to meet his eyes.

"Are there others?" he asked, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper and eyes fixed on the floor at her feet.

"Yes," her voice was slightly lower than his.

"Divorce?" his eyes lifted from the floor to look at her.

Her laugh was bitter, "Charles, I took five pounds, two dresses, and a broken figurine when I left. Do you have any idea what a divorce costs? Besides, I would have to prove that he was cruel to me." Almost as an afterthought, she added her worst fear, "And then he would know."

Charles looked at her in confusion, "But surely your scars would prove cruelty." Then he narrowed his eyes at her, "What would he know?"

"He would know where I am," her voice tightened around the words that would show her weakness to this strong man. Then she explained patiently the reasons the courts would say the man she married hadn't been cruel enough to her, "He never beat me with a rod larger than his thumb. Did you know that is within a man's rights? He never broke any bones. He only ever used his hands."

She watched as Charles's large, graceful fingers tightened into fists, and he rose to his feet to prowl around the kitchen. She could feel the anger from him-one doesn't live as she did for years without being able to recognize that emotion immediately—but she felt no fear of him. He stopped in front of her and spoke softly, "That man will not hurt you again." And she believed him. At least enough that part of her fear lifted. Then he walked away to stare at the rain beating against the window and after what seemed like a very long time, asked in frustration, "How could you have ever married a man like that?"

"Do you think he beat me when we were walking out?" she asked sharply and then sighed, "It started slowly at first. He didn't like the way the grocer looked at me so he forbade me to do the shopping. He didn't like the time I spent writing to my sister or old friends. We went to church late and sat in the back because the vicar seemed keen. I couldn't give him a child and so he-. By the end, I spoke to no one but a man that I lived in fear of upsetting."

"Yet you found the courage to leave," he said, coming back to stand beside her chair.

"He broke a pretty little china figurine that my mother had given me." Something between a smile and a snarl formed on her lips, "Maliciously. He was angry with me and knew that I treasured it. When it snapped, something snapped inside me as well. I waited until he'd gone to sleep then I took five pounds from our household till and an extra dress. He didn't wake up. I was terrrified that he would. I walked past two villages so that he wouldn't know which train I took and came here to Mrs. Beeton. I didn't know where else to turn, to hide. I was afraid that if I went to my sister he would find me there. She doesn't even know where I am. I mail my letters to her from Thirsk. I believe you know the rest of my story."

He stood silently watching her while she was speaking, and when she was finished his eyes traveled over her face to the floor then slowly around the room and finally returned to look into her eyes. She could almost see the way his mind was racing over the possibilities. She prepared herself for what would come next, but instead of the farewell that she expected, he said, "Your story hasn't ended yet."

"It has not," she agreed and took a deep breath before forcing a smile at him. He had been her friend, and she would not blame him for leaving her alone. It was the proper thing. She would be brave. "But I must end it alone."

He held his hand out to her, "No."

"No?" she asked, taking the offered hand.

He pulled her to her feet, "You will finish your story with me."

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	9. A Visitor

_**Disclaimer: I still don't own these guys but I wish very much that I did. I earn nothing from them but pleasure.**_

He pulled her into his arms for the third time that day and held her not as a lover, or as a friend, but as he would hold the most cherished person on Earth. And she was that to him. She deserved nothing but care and comfort, and he would give her all the stores of both that he had at his command. His hands wouldn't cease moving over her back, his thumb tracing the line of her shoulder blade and his fingers rubbing along her spine. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, at least for now. There was no forgetting that she was not free, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they belonged together. No piece of paper or cruel man could change that. She sank into his embrace, leaning against him. He knew he should leave. There was a bus to catch after all, but somehow walking all the eight miles back to Downton seemed preferable to removing his arms from around her. For now, their entire world was closed down to this small kitchen, and he was reluctant to let that feeling go.

"Elsie love," and she was his love. Not free but still his love. "I'll need to leave soon."

She nodded against his chest but kept her arms around him. "I know."

"I have no idea where to go from here," he sighed against her hair.

She laughed softly, "Probably to the bus stop, silly man."

He chuckled in relief after the violent swings of emotion he'd been through today. Just as he was leaning back to look in her face and comment, he was reminded that they were not alone in the world by a perfunctory knock on the door which opened with a bang and rush of wind.

"Mrs. Burns, I had some soup left over and thought you'd enjoy… Oh! I'm sorry. I never thought."

Charles craned his head toward the door but was so surprised by the intruder that he kept his arms around Elsie. His cheeks flamed when he saw an equally embarrassed Mrs. Johnstone staring at them with wide eyes, looking from him to Elsie and then back again.

Elsie pushed against his chest, and he let his hands drop to his sides. Then she spoke and he was amazed that her voice was only one octave higher than usual, "Mrs. Johnstone, we were caught in the rain, and, and…"

Mrs. Johnstone's eyes traveled around the room, and Charles looked at it with her eyes. His tie and jacket were draped over one chair and his shirt and waistcoat over another. His collar lay on the table, and he was standing in only trousers and undershirt with his braces hanging down on his hips. A quick glance at Elsie told him that her hair was down, and she was in her stocking feet. He groaned and both ladies' attention was drawn immediately to him.

Mrs. Johnstone inexplicably smiled, "Well, I'm sure you're both warm enough now."

His hand flew immediately to his ear, and he began to rub it vigorously. He was disappointed to hear that his own voice was at least two octaves higher than usual, "Mrs. Johnstone, this is not what it looks like. My clothes were wet and I took them off to dry. I had a dry undershirt and so…"

She snorted, "A good thing you keep dry clothes here."

His mouth gaped, and he was glad for Elsie's intervention, "Mrs. Johnstone! Mr. Carson and I…"

The older lady held her hand up to stop her, "Dear, I think it's wonderful. No one will ever hear of this from me. Everyone needs to take what little bit of happiness they can in this world, and goodness knows that man has eyes for no one but you since he walked into this shop."

Charles looked at Elsie. That much was certainly true. He would be hard pressed to even give a passable description of any other woman he knew, but he could describe Elsie down to each shade of red in her hair. Mrs. Johnstone interrupted his thoughts.

"I'll be leaving you to it then. There should be enough soup for two if you've a mind to eat."

His cheeks flamed again as he knew what 'it' Mrs. Johnstone thought she was leaving them to do. Reluctantly, he remembered the time, "Actually, I should be leaving as well. My bus," he reminded Elsie when she looked at him in disappointment. He glanced back at Mrs. Johnstone, "If you'll wait a moment, I could escort you."

He crossed to grab his nearly dry shirt from the chair and as he pulled it on, Elsie said, "Let me get you one of the orphan umbrellas. "

She was through to the front room before he could protest, leaving him with the beaming Mrs. Johnstone. He smiled at her uncomfortably while he worked the buttons on his shirt. She glanced at the door and then stepped closer to him to whisper, "Mr. Carson, I know that some men would take advantage of a woman alone, thinking that once she's known the comforts of married life she'd want just that from a man." She glanced at him significantly, but he dropped his eyes to the floor hoping to fall through since he understood exactly which comforts to which she was referring.

"Mrs. Johnstone, I can assure you…," he began but she cut him off again. Did the woman never let anyone else speak?"

"As I was saying, I can tell that you're not that type of man. I don't mind telling you that I was worried about our girl when she first came here, but you've been good for her. She's positively bloomed these past months, and anyone with eyes can see that's due to you. But if you hurt her…" She fixed him with a glare and then took a quick step back as Elsie re-entered the room with the umbrella.

When Elsie returned, Charles realized he had a dilemma. He needed to tuck his shirt into his trousers which would require a bit more exposure than he desired at the moment. Looking at Elsie in desperation, he excused himself and walked into the front room. As he worked quickly to tuck his shirt tails into his trousers, he heard snatches of conversation from the other room, "Dear, I am sorry. If I had any idea that he would be here, I would never…"

He groaned and tried to work faster. Then he heard Elsie's calm voice, "You needn't trouble yourself on that score. We were just having a cup of tea."

As he walked back into the kitchen, he heard Mrs. Johnstone's snort and caught her smirk at Elsie. He glanced down at the floor again, looking for a hole that would be big enough for both he and Elsie to drop through.

Charles knotted his tie silently while Elsie tapped the umbrella against her legs. He alternated between smiling nervously at Mrs. Johnstone and looking to Elsie with silent pleas for help. Elsie lifted her eyebrows at him as if to ask what he expected her to do and then smiled nervously at Mrs. Johnstone. Finally, the older woman looked down at her watch and said, "Look at the time. Goodness. Mr. Johnstone will be waiting for me. I thank you for offering your escort Mr. Carson, but I'd best be off." With those words, she was out the door almost as quickly as she had burst through it.

Charles stared at the door in disbelief for a moment before turning to Elsie with a sigh of relief. She laid the umbrella on her chair so that she could bury her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking and at first Charles thought she was crying but then he heard the snort which escaped. She was laughing. For heaven's sake. He was ready to actually die from mortification, and she was laughing.

"Elsie, I fail to see what is so amusing," he said stiffly, "That woman…"

"Caught us doing absolutely nothing wrong," she cut him off between chuckles, wiping the tears from her eyes, "But goodness knows she's wanted us together for long enough."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked in confusion, eyes scanning the room for his waistcoat.

She picked up his waistcoat and held it for him, "Charles, have you never seen the looks they give us? It's a thousand questions on Fridays for me, and when you started sending letters." She clicked her tongue and shook her head.

He couldn't help the grin that came to his face, "I had no idea it was that bothersome for you. Would you like me to stop writing to you?"

She straightened his tie but wouldn't look up to his face. "Don't you dare. A gaggle of excited females aren't so bothersome they'd make me give up your letters."

"You like them then?" he asked, catching her hands against his chest.

She blushed and looked away then back to his face, "Surely you know that I do."

"Do you read them more than once?"

Her cheeks turned a darker shade of red, and she focused on their hands joined on his chest. Just when he was sure she wouldn't answer, she whispered, "More than twice and thrice."

He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed each of them, whispering against her palm, "I keep yours in the table beside my bed and read one each night before I go to sleep."

Her fingers curled to caress his lips, and he moved to draw her into his arms again. She pushed him away and said firmly, "Charles you have to go."

"I know," he sighed, hands trailing down her arms, "If I don't leave now, I'll never be able to make myself go."

She thrust the umbrella into his hands, "No, I mean if you don't go now you will miss the last bus."

"You're right," he admitted with a start and stepped away to grab his overcoat. As he drew it onto his shoulders, he said, "I'll write to you this week, and Thursday next I'll be here. I promise. I'll find a way somehow."

She stepped back, "Charles, whether I like it or not there were vows made. We must remember that."

He stepped toward her, taking her cheek in his hand and tracing the scar there with his thumb, "I've not forgotten, but as far as I'm concerned those vows were broken the first time he lifted his hand against you."

"But," she began and he stopped her with two fingers on her lips.

"Elsie dear," he said softly, fascinated by the feel of her lips under his fingertips, "I know it won't be easy, but we'll find a way together, somehow. For now, allow us to enjoy just a bit of happiness."

He saw a moment of indecision in her eyes which quickly turned to determination just before she stepped toward him and kissed him soundly on the lips. With a smile and a tip of his hat, he stepped through the back door and was so ecstatic that he forgot to open his borrowed umbrella as he made his way through the rain toward the bus stop.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	10. A Dilemma

_**I'm sorry to keep dragging this day and night out, but quite a bit is going on. Only one more chapter after this one will be devoted to this night and then we'll have a minor time jump (weeks, not years).**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own, rent, lease, or in other way have rights to these characters. I earn nothing from writing but sore fingers.**_

Elsie lay in her bed with Charles's last letter on her knees. It had taken a cup of warmed milk and a bath, but she felt that her nerves were soothed enough to attempt sleep now. She still couldn't quite believe all that had happened today. Charles loved her. She had guessed that, tried to ignore it, tried to put him off, but he did love her. And not only loved her, but he was devoted to her. She should have known to expect that from him. He was not a man who did things half-heartedly. And he was a man, not some infatuated boy. Her fingers lifted to her lips, remembering the feel of his fingers and lips against them. No, he was most certainly not a boy. A momentary flash of concern welled up at the thought that he likely had a man's appetites as well. She quickly squashed it down, however, as something to worry about another day.

Putting the letter on the table by her bed before blowing out the candle, she slid under the blankets and pulled them up to her chin, still not sure if she would be able to sleep. As she started to dose, a loud banging noise from downstairs startled her fully awake. At first, she calmed her nerves by convincing herself it was just the storm, but then the banging grew louder and more regular. She realized that it was someone knocking on the back door, loudly. Her nerves flared into full on panic as the thought occurred to her that Joe had found her. He was here ready to demand that she come back to the farm. She lit the candle with shaking hands and then looked wildly around her room for something, anything that she could use as a weapon. When she saw nothing and the banging continued, she decided that she would try to find something downstairs. She would have to open the door before either the neighbors complained or he burst it down.

As she crept down the stairs, she realized that she had a ready supply of weapons by the front door; the umbrellas. If she remembered correctly there was one with a particularly heavy handle. She stole quietly and quickly into the front room to grab the largest, heaviest umbrella she could find. Walking through the kitchen to the back door, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever she might find there. If it were Joe, she intended to hit him as hard as she could and then run for Mrs. Johnstone's house. Surely Mr. Johnstone would help to protect her. She raised the umbrella behind her with one hand and after another pause for courage and a quick prayer, jerked the door open.

Charles nearly stumbled through the door, face terrified when he saw the umbrella, and he lifted his arm to ward off the blow. She dropped her umbrella to the ground, "Charles, what on earth are you doing? You scared me near to death."

"I scared you?" he asked incredulously, "When I'm the one about to be brained by an umbrella?"

She let him through the door and took his dripping coat from him to hang on the hook. "You should be at least halfway to Downton by now."

He leaned heavily against the doorframe and grimaced, "I missed my bus."

She swallowed quickly and turned away to hide her disquiet, wondering if he would expect to stay here. "I see. Let me fetch the towel so you can dry off. I can re-light the stove and…"

Hearing a loud groan behind her and a heavy shuffling noise, she turned to see that he'd pushed himself off the door frame and was limping across the room, wincing with every step.

She was back to him in an instant, urging him to lean on her, "Charles for heaven's sake. What's wrong?"

"I turned my ankle," he bit his lip and grimaced as he tried to hold his weight off her, "when I was running for the blasted bus."

"And you walked all the way back here?" she asked, incredulous.

"Correction, I limped all the way back here," he said, "And I used the orphan umbrella," he indicated it with a jerk of his head, "as a cane, which would explain why I'm soaked to the skin."

He turned his head to smile down at her and his face burned crimson, "Um, Elsie, do you realize you're only wearing your nightdress?"

His voice sounded strange and when she looked down, she realized why. Her nightdress was well-worn and the room was cold. Little was left to the imagination. With a gasp, she pushed away from him and grabbed the first thing she could think of, her coat. Pulling it around her, she turned back to see that he had sunk into a chair at the table and was looking at everything but her.

Her eyes were drawn to the way his white shirt clung to his chest and his shivering frame, and she stepped back to his side to push sodden curls away from his face before cupping his cheeks in her hands. Pressing her lips to his forehead, she said, "You're nearly frozen. I'll make you some tea. I suppose it would be best if you got out of those wet things, but I doubt I have anything that would fit you."

"I should hope not. I doubt I'd look good in a dress," he grunted with a half smile, "No, Elsie, I only came back here first because I left my package. My purchases today were a pair of pyjamas and, um, other personal items." His eyebrows lifted, "Lucky thing since it seems I'll be stuck in Ripon overnight. I'll just take them and find a rooming house. I'm sorry that I disturbed you from your bed."

She chewed her bottom lip as she saw him shivering again. A blast of wind drove rain against the window and made her decision for her. "Stay here."

His head snapped up, and his eyes popped wide, "Elsie, that wouldn't be proper. You can't have a man stay…"

"Oh for heaven's sake Charles, I'm madly in love with a man who is not my husband. There's nothing proper about any of this. As cold as you are already, if you go out in that you'll probably catch pneumonia. I'll not find my love only to lose him the same day."

"Madly in love?" he asked, smile stretching his lips before he was overtaken by an almighty sneeze.

"That was impressive," she said, matching his smile but a little worried, "We need to get you warm."

He tapped the side of his nose, "Big nose, big sneeze. How do you propose to warm me, my love?"

"Do you think you could make it up the stairs?"

He had started to sneeze again but surprise stopped it, "To your bedroom?"

She blushed when she heard the squeak in his voice. "To the bathing room. You could warm up in a hot bath while I make tea. There's a fire up there already."

"I see," he said, clearing his throat, "That would make sense, and I suppose it would be proper if you stayed down here until I'm fully dressed."

"In dry pyjamas buttoned to the chin," she said seriously, fingers brushing his neck above his collar.

He shuddered and nodded, "To the chin. And then what?"

"And then I'll come up," she said, "with your tea."

"With my tea," he repeated, swallowing quickly again before struggling to his feet and starting toward the stairs.

And that, she thought as she watched him limp out of sight, is how we'll both get burned.

_**Reviews are always greatly appreciated. **_


	11. A Song

_**Sorry for the delay today, but I've been a bit busy.**_

_**Disclaimer: Not mine. Earn nothing from them. Intend them no harm.**_

Charles fastened the last button on his shirt while he watched his reflection in her small mirror, glad to finally be warm and completely dry for the first time since their picnic. He was leaning a bit heavily on the dressing table, but it seemed sturdy enough. Breaking furniture was not something he intended to do tonight. Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to the double bed in the corner, but then he turned his gaze back to his reflection and told himself sternly not to think of such things. Unfortunately, he was proving to be a very poor listener tonight. With one last shake of his head, he pushed away from the table and half-hopped toward the fire. He first checked to see that his clothes were drying well.

Clicking his tongue at his wrinkled shirt, he wondered if Elsie might have a smoothing iron. If he could work on the shirt and brush off the trousers and coat, he wouldn't look quite so disreputable tomorrow. Then he saw an item of clothing that he most definitely would not want Elsie to see. The rain must have driven what few brains he had out of his head for him to leave these in plain sight. Wadding them in his hand he looked around for a suitable hiding spot. At first, he thought about either his jacket or trouser pocket, but that would cause a noticeable bulge. Under the mattress? Somehow that just seemed wrong. Then Elsie called to warn him that she was starting up, and he went into a near panic and seized on the idea of shoving them in the stove. After all, his shopping expedition today ensured he had a good supply and one pair of underpants wouldn't be missed.

He had just shoved them in and started to shut the door when he was simultaneously surprised by a sneeze, and Elsie topping the stairs. His hand unfortunately bumped against the stove, and he cried out in pain, snatching it back. Elsie was to him in an instant and pulling him, hopping, toward the bathing room.

"Elsie, stop," he pulled her back and off balance into his arms, "I'm fine. I only bumped my hand. My ankle hurts much worse."

She had braced herself with hands on his upper arms and now she smiled up at him, "Well, at least now, I suppose we've both been burned."

His voice caught in his throat as he was almost overwhelmed by the nearness of her. He released his hold on her waist and swallowed. "Elsie," he looked at her seriously, "I have no intention of either being injured or injuring you anymore tonight." He hoped she would understand his meaning.

Her eyes darted toward the bed and then she looked back at him with a shy smile. She shook her head as if to dispel her thoughts, "I thought I heard you moving about up here, so I decided it would be safe. Did you put another lump of coal in? That's good. It will be nice and cozy."

"Yes, it will," he said, feeling momentarily guilty for the small lie and so changed the subject, "Um, would you have any way...? My shirt, it would help if I could get the wrinkles out."

"Yes, of course," she walked to the closet and removed an iron and board. She placed the iron on the stove and set up the board to be ready.

"Elsie, I am perfectly capable of ironing my own shirt. I was a valet once upon a time, you know," he drew himself up straighter and lifted his eyebrows at her.

She gestured to the lone armchair, "You're perfectly capable of sitting down. That ankle looks awful."

Considering that he'd watched it turning an interesting shade of purple while he was bathing, he felt resistance would be futile and instead sank gracelessly into the chair, stretching his aching leg in front of him.

"You can pay me by keeping me entertained while I work," she said as she laid his shirt over the board. Then, with a mischievous glance through her lashes and half smile, she added, "I suppose dancing is out."

He barked a laugh, enjoying the intimate domesticity, "For tonight at least. I can juggle, but I'd have to stand for that as well."

"Well that would be a treat," she grasped the iron using a pad to protect her hand, "I was only hoping for a bit of conversation."

"Oh I believe I could do better than that," he watched her through hooded eyes. As she started to work he began to sing the first song that came to him, "'Twas on a Monday morning..."

She was concentrating carefully on her work, iron moving over the shirt with quiet efficiency, but he could see the dimples forming on her cheeks as she began to smile. By the time he reached the chorus, "Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away," she was blushing very prettily.

He continued with his song until she was nearly finished, then he pushed himself out of the chair and took the two steps toward her as quietly as he could with his limp. He could tell by her careful concentration on his shirt that she knew he was approaching, "Be careful, Charles, or you may end up with an iron shaped hole in your shirt. There'd be no explaining that away."

"I have no idea what you mean," he said, unable to hold back his chuckle. He waited until she lifted his shirt from the board with a flourish and set the iron to the side before putting his hands on her waist and drawing her to him for a soft and tender kiss.

She leaned into his embrace and sighed. He was encouraged to deepen the kiss and enjoy exploring the taste of her. She sighed again and murmured his name against his lips. Reluctantly, he pulled his head away but kept his arms around her. Kissing her forehead and pressing his nose into her hair, he inhaled deeply, "I love the smell of your hair, lavender and lemons. Of course, I suppose I smell that way too after using your soap."

"And is that such a bad thing?" she asked, and he was gratified by the breathlessness of her voice.

He laughed, "Only if anyone questions exactly what or who caused me to miss my bus."

She took a deep breath, her shoulders tensed, and her fingers paused in the pattern they were tracing on his upper arm, "Charles, have you given any thought to how, to where you will sleep?"

He sighed, deciding to name the elephant in the room, "I've given a great deal of thought to it. In a perfect world, I would take you to that bed, and we'd enjoy comforting each other after this long and eventful day." When she started to pull away from him, he added, "Then tomorrow, I'd speak to the vicar, and you'd be my wife in just over three weeks time."

She pressed her forehead against his chest and gave a deep, hitching breath, "But the world is not perfect."

"No, it is not," he reluctantly agreed, "So I thought I would pull that chair over to the bed. If you'll let me prop up this purple monstrosity of an ankle on the bed, I think I'll sleep quite well in the chair."

He felt the tenseness leave her shoulders, heard her let out a sighing breath, and she leaned back to smile at him, "Liar."

"Perhaps," he nodded, then looked at her very seriously, "I'll not make an adulteress of you, Elsie. I love you too much for that."

"You are a good man, Charles Carson," she said, pulling his face to hers for another kiss. Then she paused, eyes darting away from his again, "But you are a man and men need…, That is, at some point won't you need to satisfy yourself?" She was blushing, but he felt vaguely that there was something more behind this question.

"Elsie," he began quietly, "At some point, I would very much like to show you just how much I love you and give you pleasure, but I am capable of waiting."

She looked up at him sharply at the word pleasure, and he asked, jaw clenching to fight down his anger, "Was he rough with you in that way as well?"

"No," she answered carefully, "he did what he needed to do quickly, but there was no pain or at least little enough. I believe that's the usual way for women, isn't it?"

That question brought him up short. Was it? It wasn't as if his experience was vast. There had been the time when he was on the halls of course, but those women were always more the instigators than he was. There had been a widow that he visited occasionally in London, years ago. She had seemed to enjoy herself, but was it all just an act?

He cleared his throat. Why on earth had he led the conversation down this path? Finally, he looked at her, "Elsie, I don't have enough experience to pretend to know for certain, but I would very much like to find out with you. Just not tonight."

She picked at the buttons on his shirt and laughed nervously, "This is not the best conversation to have before going to bed with a man."

"That is settled," he said, firmly, "You'll go to bed, and I'll be in the chair."

"Nothing was settled," she answered just as firmly and met his gaze with stubbornness, "That was your thought, but it's as ridiculous as you thinking you'd go to a rooming house just for propriety's sake. Your ankle must hurt terribly. You would get no rest in that chair, and I would be far too worried about you to rest myself. Surely we have some control."

He shook his head, "Elsie, I don't want either of us to get burned more tonight."

"Charles," she said, patiently, "I trust you. If you weren't worthy of trust, no chair would be an impediment. The bed is big enough for two."

"I noticed," he smiled weakly.

"Surely we have some restraint," she said, still patient.

He gulped, "Surely. Lie down then, and I'll put up the iron and board."

As he put up the board and heard the sounds of her removing her dressing gown and slippers behind him, the picture formed in his mind of how she'd looked earlier in her nightdress. It had been cold downstairs, and her nightdress was disturbingly thin. For a moment, he wondered if he wouldn't be better off to just go sit out in the rain. The cold rain. When he heard the bed sag under her weight, he began to wish for snow. Finally, when he could delay no longer, he hopped back to the bed and blew out the candle before lying down. She lay stiffly under the blankets, arms at her sides. He matched her position and lay on his back staring up into the darkness. It felt awkward to be in bed with a woman. As limited as his experience was, it had never involved merely sleeping in the same bed with a woman.

After another few moments, he felt her hand against his and turned to look at her. She smiled at him, and he realized that she was right. He would be tempted by her no matter how close or far away. Lifting his arm, he put it around her shoulders and drew her close. If he was going to burn, he would do it surrounded by the scent of lemon and lavender.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	12. A Tart

_**Sorry to disappoint those who wanted an immediate follow up to the last chapter, but there is a small time jump here. **_

_**Disclaimer: Own them not, earn money not. **_

_**Ripon, Ten days later**_

Elsie rolled over and took a deep breath, inhaling Charles. She had deliberately, silly git that she was, not washed the pillowcase where his head had lain ten days ago just so she could begin her mornings this way. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock, time to be up and about. The tea shop needed to be ready for the day, and this was not just any day. It was Thursday next, and he would be here today. He had said so, and she had no doubt it would be true. He had also reiterated the fact in both of his letters. Silly man; two letters in ten days. She would need to chide him about that. He shouldn't be wasting the postage money on her.

As she dressed, she wondered, not for the first time, a little nervously how it would be when they saw each other today. That rainy day had been so fraught with emotional highs and lows that it almost seemed they were isolated, alone in the world. Of course, Mrs. Johnstone had burst that illusion, but still, everything had seemed to be easy between them. That night had been pleasant and the morning more so, dressing together as they prepared for their respective days. It was almost unbelievable how easy everything between them was considering the obstacles in their way, but it was true. Perhaps because at heart Charles was a very simple man, he loved her. They would work through all other obstacles given time, but he loved her and nothing would change that fact. Touching her lips and smoothing down her hair, she remembered again the pleasure and comfort that they'd given each other that night. Yes; facing him today in a crowd of people without blushing from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes was going to be very difficult.

Thankfully, they were busy enough that her mind only drifted to him four or five times. Also thankfully, Mrs. Johnstone must have picked up on her anxiety because she kept her teasing to a minimum. Molly and Anna were no trouble either. They merely took extra care to ensure that an extra piece of apple tart was kept back and that Mr. Carson's table, as they'd taken to calling it, was kept clear. By the time the afternoon arrived, Elsie's nerves were frayed to the snapping point. She used every calming technique that she knew to keep those nerves from snapping at either the girls, Mrs. Johnstone, or, heaven forbid, one of the customers.

Glancing down at her watch, she saw that it was five past one. He would be here in just another moment. Molly and Anna were making sure that all the customers were being cared for so that she would be free. Mrs. Johnstone had his tray ready; two sandwiches, one slice of apple tart, and a teapot. All that would be needed would be to wet the tea. All was ready, and he should be here. He was always here by this time, which was why it was inexplicable that half past the hour came and went with no Charles. At two o'clock, Mrs. Johnstone was clicking her tongue and mumbling to herself. By three o'clock, she caught Molly looking at her worriedly and whispering to Anna. Finally, at half past three she faced the fact that he was likely not coming today.

Anna came to fetch her to let her know that Mrs. Johnstone was having some difficulties. She sighed, there was usually only one person who caused Mrs. Johnstone difficulty, and she would rather not deal with him today. As she walked tiredly into the kitchen, she saw that Mrs. Johnstone's face was red and her eyes were flashing. She took a deep breath and for a moment entertained the thought of turning on her heel and leaving the cook to deal with this problem on her own, but only for a moment, she was a good friend after all. This man was far too familiar for her tastes, and considering the feelings she was having about men in general and a certain butler in particular today, she wasn't sure she'd be able to hold her temper. Unfortunately, he had spotted her, "Mrs. Burns, you're a sight for tired eyes. I was just asking about you."

A quick glance at Mrs. Johnstone confirmed that this was true, but the older lady rolled her eyes in amusement. Perhaps if Elsie could only keep her sense of humor, she wouldn't brain the man.

"Mr. Tufton, I am, as always, busy with the front. You know that Mrs. Johnstone deals with the supplies. Now, if you should choose to become a customer…" She let her voice trail off knowing that he would do no such thing. Mrs. Johnstone was always complaining of his endless sampling of her biscuits and cakes.

He stepped closer to her, not too much, but just enough to make her uncomfortable. "I see. Things would be different if I was a paying customer. The customer is always right, is that it? Perhaps I should just for that," he laughed, "But I'm always happy to sample, always happy to give my opinion. " That was certainly true. He was never shy about offering his opinion, or anything else that Elsie could see, except payment.

She remained speechless. Did the man have no idea what he was implying? That her favors could be bought.

He continued, apparently taking her silence for encouragement, "I was just telling Mrs. Johnstone that it's been a very long time since I sampled her apple tart. I'd be glad of a piece and then I could judge the quality of her spices. Tufton's Sundries has the best spices I always say." He was eyeing Charles's apple tart and the cook was looking daggers at the back of his head. Elsie glanced down quickly to assure herself that she wasn't holding a knife. "What do you say, Mrs. Burns? We could share that piece over a cuppa. Very cozy-like.""

Elsie sighed, ready to give the blasted thing to him. Actually, she was ready to shove the thing in his face, disappointed as she was with the entire male half of the race at the moment. Just as she was ready to tell him so, she heard the door open behind her. Without even turning around, she could feel Charles enter the room. Strange that if it had been Joe who found a man flirting with her so outrageously, she would have been terrified, but with Charles she just drew strength from his quiet, steady presence. He stepped silently to just behind her shoulder, but she stubbornly refused to turn to look at him.

"Elsie," he said a cautious note in his voice, "I apologize for being so late. I had some pressing business. Anna thought you might like to see me right away."

Mr. Tufton was looking up at Charles with some concern, "Who's this then?"

Elsie's frayed nerves finally snapped, "This, Mr. Tufton, is the owner of that apple tart, and he's come to share it with me over a cuppa. Very cozy-like. Now, if you'll please excuse us." She indicated the door, which Mrs. Johnstone had hurried over to open and usher the man out.

After he left, she turned to look at Charles and saw that his eyebrows were drawn low and he was glaring at the door, "Was that man bothering you?"

"Not nearly as much as you do," she sighed, "But I'm glad you are here. What's kept you?"

Mrs. Johnstone interrupted before he could speak, "Good riddance. The nerve of that man. Thinking you'd be for sale for the price of an apple tart."

The effect on Charles's demeanor was immediate. "He implied that? About you? I'll..."

He was already nearly to the door by the time Elsie was able to grab his arm to hold him back. Mrs. Johnstone was being completely unhelpful, opening the door and stepping out of the way.

"Charles Carson," she said through gritted teeth, "you'll do no such thing. That situation is taken care of quite well. You'll not waste more of our day on that man. We've little enough time as it is."

He stopped reluctantly and turned back to her, "I apologize again for being late, but I promise it was in a good cause." He glanced at Mrs. Johnstone, "Perhaps we should discuss that later."

She studied him carefully, "Perhaps. Go to your table, and I'll send Anna with your tea." After a pause, she added, "Tell her thank you for sending you to the kitchen, even if the lot of you are over-protective."

He saw the tray ready for him and looked to Mrs. Johnstone with a mischievous smile and a wink then back to Elsie, "Keep the apple tart back. To share with you later over a cuppa. Very cozy-like." He leaned down to give her the quickest of kisses on her flaming cheek before stepping quickly out of the kitchen.

She huffed and turned to Mrs. Johnstone who was studiously applying herself to the washing up. "The cheek of that man."

As she followed him through the door to the dining room, she thought she heard Mrs. Johnstone mumble, "Very nice on both accounts if you ask me."

Elsie chose to ignore her comment. Goodness, everyone was overstepping themselves today. She should be furious which is why it was difficult to explain the broad smile on her face.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	13. A Change

_**Late again, but a bit longer to make up for it. **_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own them and earn nothing from them. Mean them no harm and will return when finished.**_

Charles had hardly drunk any of his tea and only nibbled on one of the sandwiches. He was too busy drumming his fingers on the table and watching Elsie move around the room. If he wasn't mistaken, she was being very determined in staying away from him and not looking in his direction. He tried not to be concerned, but Molly was sending pitying looks his way and Anna spoke quietly to him when she brought his tray, "We were that worried about you when you didn't come on time, but I told Molly that you'd be here. Mrs. Burns's fellow isn't one to disappoint. That's what I said."

He nodded his appreciation of her trust in him and tried to look around her to see if Elsie were still mad. If the way her hips were swaying was any indication, she was furious. Perhaps he should make her angry more often. Kissing her on the cheek had probably been a bit much, but he had been so proud of the way she'd put that man in his place that he couldn't help himself. She could be fierce and stubborn, and he found that side of her immensely attractive. One more reason to be angry at the man who'd spent years squashing that down.

Finally, she ushered Molly and Anna out the back before turning the card in the window. He rose, grateful to finally be alone, and took up his teapot and cup while she was making her way to his side.

"Well?"

"Well what, woman?" he asked.

"Well, are you going to tell me why you were so late?" she asked, clearly frustrated.

"That's a fine welcome for your fellow," he teased, setting the pot and cup back on the table so that he could put his hands on her waist to draw her close, "No 'I'm terribly glad to see you' or 'I've missed you so much my heart has ached' or even 'How's your ankle, Charles?'"

"I am terribly glad to see you or I wouldn't be upset you were late," she answered, grabbing the lapels of his jacket to pull him down to her level, "I don't know about heartache, but I've thought about you every morning and every night and multiple times in between. And as for the last, if the way you sauntered out of the kitchen is any indication, your ankle is fine."

Then she covered his lips with a fierce and possessive kiss. He pulled away, breathless, after adding a few kisses of his own, "I have missed you, Elsie dear, and I've thought of you every night and morning as well and many, many times in between. Actually, I have a confession to make."

She looked at him quizzically, and he pulled her tight against his chest before bending to whisper in her ear, "I can't bear to launder the pyjamas I wore that night because they smell of lavender and lemons. As long as I sleep in them, I can pretend that you're there with me or I'm here with you."

He felt her smile against his cheek, "My pillow still smells like you. I pretend every morning that I'm waking up with you."

His hands wandered over her back and he couldn't seem to stop kissing her. Every time he was ready to move away he felt that he needed just one more kiss, one more caress. She finally pulled away and shook her head, laughing softly, "Charles, love, you've kissed me till I'm dizzy."

He relaxed his hold on her but didn't completely release her, "We can't have that can we?" His lips twitched upwards, "We've got apple tart to share. Nice and cozy-like."

She slapped at his chest, "You'll never let me forget that will you? I was already under great distress and that man is unbearable at the best of times, far too familiar."

His teeth ground together, "I don't like that, but I think you handled him brilliantly. My woman can certainly put a man in his place." He finished by smiling at her proudly and was gratified to see her return his smile.

"If we're going to share your apple tart, you'll need to let me go. We can't walk into the kitchen like this."

"We have a dilemma then, because I do not want to let you go," he frowned and pretended to think hard, "Perhaps if you would let me walk behind you…"

He answered her confused look by whispering into her ear, "You are lovely when you're angry. You sway quite nicely."

She blushed and swatted at his arm, but when she walked away, he noticed that her hips were swinging back and forth. Yes; his woman was a fine lady indeed.

They managed to make it to the kitchen, wash the few remaining dishes, and sit down with their apple tart with a minimum of touches, quick kisses, and brushing of hands. As they started to eat, with chairs pulled beside each other so they could share, he wondered how married couples ever got anything done if they constantly wanted to touch each other as much as he wanted to touch Elsie. That thought brought him up short when he remembered Elsie was still married, and to a man whose touches had stemmed from anger not love.

His hand tightened on the fork for a moment before he laid it beside the plate. Elsie looked at him in concern and asked, "The tart isn't to your liking? Or is it something else?"

"No, no, the tart is just as good as ever. Give Mrs. Johnstone my thanks for guarding it," he was quick to reassure her. Then he cleared his throat, "I should probably tell you about my business this afternoon."

"That sounds ominous," she put her own fork down.

The fingers of his right hand began to tap out a rhythm on the table, "Not quite as bad as that, I hope, but not entirely good news either."

She was watching him cautiously and then covered his hand with her own to stop the tapping, "Go on."

He cleared his throat, knowing that he had overstepped his bounds a bit, "You know that the heir to Downton is a solicitor?"

"Oh Charles, you didn't," she said, eyes wide.

He nodded shortly, "Mr. Crawley, that is, Mr. Matthew Crawley has an office here in Ripon. I felt that we, that I, needed a clear understanding of what we're against." When he saw her worry, he was quick to reassure her, "Now Elsie, I used no names, and I only asked in a relatively general sense for a friend. He's not an entirely stupid man. I'm sure that he perhaps guesses that my inquiries were of a personal nature, but he doesn't know and didn't pry."

"And what did he have to say about your friend?" she sighed, not nearly as upset as he thought she would be.

"Much the same as you," he answered, eyes fixed on the pattern of the tablecloth, "He did feel that any scars you might have would prove cruelty, but…"

She cut him off, "You told him about my scars?"

"Only the one on your face," he said, and then added in a lower tone, "and your shoulder."

"Charles!"

"Elsie," he defended himself, "it would be important to prove a pattern, over time."

"I see," she said stiffly, "There was something else?"

He took a deep breath, "We would also have to prove infidelity which would likely require a private investigator and not be certain, or there is another option."

"Another option?" she asked flatly, and he wondered if she could guess.

"Mr. Crawley told me that it is not unheard of for some men and women who are wishing for divorce to set up proof of infidelity on the woman's part. That is far easier to prove than cruelty, and only requires agreement by both parties and someone willing to be named as co-respondent. He thought it might be possible to, well, to bribe your husband." The words left him in a rush and he kept his gaze fixed on the table.

"Either way would be very expensive," she said.

"It would," he agreed, "Although Mr. Crawley has indicated that he would take on the legal aspects for a greatly reduced rate if not free."

She looked at him sharply, "I thought you said he thought it was 'for a friend'."

"I told you he's not an idiot, Elsie," he answered wryly, "His exact words were, 'Of course if this friend were to happen to know a solicitor, that solicitor might be persuaded to be flexible in his rates, especially if this friend of yours is indispensable to the solicitor's family.'"

Elsie laughed softly, "I suppose that is vague enough."

Charles agreed with a grim smile, "And there is a third option. We can go on as we have been and hope for a particularly painful farming accident or, if for some reason he does find out about us, we hope he sues for divorce. I would gladly be co-respondent to get you away from him."

"Charles," she said softly, "I don't think he would sue for divorce. He is," she paused and a shudder ran through her, "possessive. If he finds me, I believe that he would take me back to the farm or…"

Charles shuddered himself. He wanted to reassure her that he would protect her, but how could he when she was so far away?"

"Elsie," he looked down at their joined hands, "Would you consider coming to Downton?"

Her hand clenched, "Would you put me up in some abandoned cottage as your mistress? Stealing food from the house for me?"

His shoulders shifted uncomfortably. That was just a bit too close to what he'd done to hide his embarrassment a little over a year ago, and he was certainly not embarrassed by Elsie. "No; as housekeeper. Mrs. McDonnagh has given notice. If Mrs. Beeton would give a reference, I believe I could assure a glowing recommendation from the butler." He held up his hand to still her protest, "If I did not believe that you could do a fine job, I wouldn't recommend you. So don't refuse on that account."

"Why?" she asked, "Why would it be so important for me to be there? Surely, it would be more difficult in many ways. More eyes would be watching. Our privacy very limited."

"I have thought about this thoroughly for the past week, ever since Mrs. McDonnagh gave her notice. We would have to be careful, but if you were there I could protect you," he finished in barely a whisper, "Do you have any idea what it would do to me if you…? If he found you and harmed you or worse?"

She removed her hand from his and held his cheek, turning his face up to look at her, "Do you have any idea what it would do to me to cost you the job you love? It would be one thing if you left of your free will, but if you were forced out, shamed, because of your relationship with me."

Those same thoughts had troubled him, but he gave her the same answer he'd given himself, "It would be far worse to live out my days without you. Don't underestimate me, Elsie. I am not a child."

She looked at him very seriously for a long moment, and he could see the workings of her mind. Once she'd come to a decision, she said, "There would be one very large problem with this arrangement."

"And that would be?"

"I would have to take orders from you," she smiled.

He puffed out his chest, "Of course, the butler is king of his domain."

She rolled her eyes at him, and so he added, "But I would think that if I boss you in public, I would need to be obedient in private. And vice versa, of course."

She looked at him speculatively, running her fingers under his shirt cuff, "So if you, for instance, ordered me, in public, to share a piece of apple tart with you, then…"

His breath left him at the delightful, tingling sensation on his arm, "Then I would think you could make demands of me in private."

She leaned toward him, and he put his arms around her waist to steady her, "We are in private now."

"We are, so demand away," he said and leaned toward her to kiss her, thanking his lucky stars for that piece of apple tart.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	14. A Skillet

**_I'm terribly sorry this has been so late, but I've been derailed by plays, illness, work, and holidays. Hopefully, I will be able to get back on track with regular updates now._**

**_Disclaimer: Don't own them but maybe the Easter bunny will be kind this year._**

**Ripon, October, 1913 Three weeks later**

Elsie was waiting in the kitchen when Mrs. Johnstone arrived and greeted her warmly. This would be their last day together since after the shop closed today, it would open on Tuesday with new owners. Elsie had been hesitant about leaving at first, but Mrs. Beeton had assured her that she not only had buyers for the shop, the only thing which had held up the sale to this point was that the new owners were insistent upon living in the rooms above the shop. While Elsie's welcome was warm, Mrs. Johnstone was decidedly cooler than her usual cheery self. Anna and Molly also seemed a bit stiff, but Elsie put all this unusual behavior down to their uncertainty about the future. They had been guaranteed positions, but putting herself in their shoes, Elsie didn't think she would be too certain either.

The day went much as any other day. They had their usual morning rush, then a lull. Then another rush around 1 o'clock and another lull in the afternoon. During the afternoon lull, she decided to go into the kitchen to speak with Mrs. Johnstone. She had been a friend to her, and Elsie didn't want to leave on bad terms. As she started through to the kitchen, the bell over the front door chimed. When she turned to greet whatever customer might be coming at this odd time, she was stunned to see a familiar face. Joe. Her heart stopped in her chest and then nearly raced out of it. He had found her. He was here. Swallowing down the lump which had formed in her throat, she walked over to greet him, hoping he wouldn't create a scene.

"Mr. Burns, may I show you to a table?" She was proud of the fact that her voice was steady and even.

His lips quirked up into a smirk, "Of course, you only serve paying customers, at least that's what I've heard."

Tufton. The loud-mouthed idiot.

After guiding him to a table, she turned back to the kitchen. As she walked through the door, her eyes met the accusing ones of Mrs. Johnstone.

Elsie refused to drop her gaze, "You knew then."

"If you mean that I found out last night that you are still married, then yes," the cook spoke sharply, "I can't believe what you've done to us. Not to mention that poor Mr. Carson."  
Elsie began tiredly, "Mrs. Johnstone, you don't-"

Joe burst through the door of the kitchen and cut off the rest of her sentence. "I'm glad you finally came through here so that we could have some privacy."

He was livid, that much was easy to tell, and it was a cold sort of anger. Elsie held up her hand, "At least wait until the shop is closed."

He grasped her hand to pull it down, pressing his thumbnail into the tender skin at the base of one of her nails as he did. Elsie gasped in pain. That only seemed to anger him further. He grabbed her upper arm, digging his fingers in, and pressed her against the wall. "I've done all the waiting that I plan to do these last months. You took something of mine."

Mrs. Johnstone spoke up, "Here now, you've no cause to..."

"This is no business of yours," Joe turned to speak to her, "A man has a right to discipline his wife, especially if that wife ran off with fifty pounds."

"Fifty?" Elsie asked, "It was never. I only took..."

Joe smacked her across the mouth, "Don't lie to me. Don't think I want you back. I'll not take another man's leavings. How long were you carrying on with him? From the beginning?"

She steeled herself. She was not afraid of this man. Charles Carson loved her, and he wouldn't love a weak woman. As quick as she had this thought, she brought her heel down on his toe. He winced in surprise and released her arm. Then, Elsie was unsure whether she or Joe were more surprised when Mrs. Johnstone brought her best skillet down on his head. He groaned and grabbed the back of his head, stumbling away and groping at the wall to hold him upright. Elsie turned to the older woman in near shock.

"I wondered why you looked like you did when you first came to us. I'm sorry that I doubted you, but when he came to us last night, well, I was that confused."

Elsie took a deep breath, looking around the room in confusion, and rubbing her upper arm where Joe's fingers were sure to have left bruises. "I can understand. And I'm sure you thought I'd treated Mr. Carson poorly."

"Imagine that man thinking Mr. Carson would have carried on with you for years behind his back," Mrs. Johnstone looked at him in disgust. When she saw he was starting to come back to his senses, she gave him another whack on the head and this time he crumpled to the floor. She looked back at Elsie curiously, "Does he know? Mr. Carson, I mean."

Suddenly Elsie was trembling all over and she sat down before running a shaky hand over her eyes, "He does. He also knows about..., well, about how Mr. Burns treated me."

At that moment, Anna and Molly stumbled over each other coming into the kitchen, stopping short to stare at the crumpled heap on the floor who was beginning to stir again. Mrs. Johnstone lifted the hand with the skillet in it again, but Elsie stopped her, "We don't want you taken up for murder Mrs. Johnstone. Just, let's, well, girls, help me get him out of here, and you," she indicated the cook, "Go make sure there are no customers and lock the front door. Don't forget to turn the card."

The two younger women, apparently struck speechless, helped her drag Joe to the back door and push him outside. He was starting to come to, but still seemed a bit senseless. Elsie leaned down to whisper in his ear, "If you know what's good for you, don't come back to this shop or I won't stop her next time."

When they'd closed and locked the door, she turned back to her two young serving girls and to Mrs. Johnstone who had re-entered the kitchen. Still carrying her skillet, Elsie saw. Elsie studied them for a moment and then came to a quick decision, "Sit down girls, Mrs. Johnstone. I probably should have told you this a long time ago.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	15. A Letter

_**Thank you again for all the reviews. **_

_**Disclaimer: Beloved but not owned by me. **_

Charles stopped banging on the door and rested his head against it. He had hurried to Ripon almost as soon as he'd gotten the letter, but he still had found the teashop closed and Elsie hadn't answered his knock. They'd been so close. It was only one more day. She would have been at Downton in just one more day. Nothing could be worse than this. Then his throat tightened as he thought of exactly what would be worse than Elsie not being here, her not being anywhere at all. He pounded his fist in frustration against the door, hoping she would finally open it. Stopping to speak to Lord Grantham had been a terrible mistake, but he thought surely if that man had only sent a letter to him then he wouldn't confront Elsie. If he did not find her soon and well, he would never forgive himself.

He sat down heavily on the stoop. Taking off his hat, he ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to think of his next step. He should probably go back to Downton just long enough to pack a bag. Then he could go to the farm. Elsie had been sure that he would take her back there. He tried not to think of the 'or worse'. He rose to his feet with determination and started down the alley to head toward the bus stop. As he got out to the street, he spotted a familiar figure and decided to glean what information that he could. He quickened his pace and caught her, "Mrs. Johnstone, I've just been to the tea shop."

She didn't quite meet his eyes, "It's closed."

"I saw that," Charles ground out as he narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you have any idea where Elsie might be?"

"No," she said quickly, "none at all. That is, why would I know? I thought she was going to Downton with you."

His hand went involuntarily to his jacket pocket, "That was our intention, but I'm afraid events may have caused a change. Are you very sure that you don't know where she is?"

She spoke a bit sharper than Charles expected, "Am I my sister's keeper? Shouldn't you be the one keeping up with her?"

Charles's hand flew to the back of his neck, "That is exactly what I'm trying to do. She is not here. I'm afraid..." He looked around them, suddenly aware of potential listening ears. Drawing her into a doorway, he bent low so that he could plead with her as quietly as possible, "There was someone from her past, and I have reason to believe that he may have come here. Please, did you see her with anyone today?"

Mrs. Johnstone fixed her eyes on his feet, "No, of course not, there was no one here today. No one at all."

"Please," he was ready to beg on bended knee if she would give him the answers he needed, "If you know anything, anything at all, tell me. If something happens to her, I'll never forgive myself."

Mrs. Johnstone studied him for a long moment before rolling her eyes upward and muttering, "And that woman thought an ocean would be enough."

Charles was so confused that he thought he must have heard her wrong, "What did you say?"

"An ocean, Mr. Carson," she said flatly, "Honestly, I don't know if I've ever met two such besotted fools in my life."

"An ocean?" he asked in utter confusion, "I'm afraid I must be a fool, because I have no idea what you mean."

"That woman wanted to protect you, to protect your honor," she explained patiently, "Her husband came here today."

"Here?" he broke into her explanation, "Did he hurt her? Why didn't she send for me right away?"

Mrs. Johnstone looked away from him uncomfortably, "He did hurt her, but he's taken care of for now. And he let her know he knew about you. Very insulting he was," she sniffed, "Mrs. Burns left straight away. She doesn't want you to get caught up in her problems, she said."

"Doesn't want me caught up in her problems?" he was incredulous and his voice rose much louder than he intended.

"Mr. Carson?" a familiar male voice interrupted them, "Are you having some difficulty?"

He turned to see perhaps not quite the last person he would want to see but certainly in the top ten looking curiously from himself to Mrs. Johnstone and back again. When his eyes met Charles's again, he saw the misunderstanding there.

"No, no, Mr. Crawley, no difficulty at all," he was quick to reassure him, "This is a friend of mine. That is, she is a friend of my friend. We were just..."

"I see," Mr. Crawley said, smiling, "This is the friend that you were asking about then."

"No!" Charles said quickly, "That is, Mrs. Johnstone is married." When he saw the smile on Mr. Crawley's face, he added quickly, "Happily so. She is my friend's friend."

"Well, I don't know how happily," Mrs. Johnstone said under her voice, "But my husband's never smacked me across the mouth."

"He did that?" Charles turned back to her, enraged now.

Mr. Crawley interrupted again, "I'm very confused, Mr. Carson. This is a friend of your friend's friend?"

In his frustration and anger, Charles threw all caution away and blurted out the briefest explanation that he could, "This is Mrs. Johnstone, she is the friend of Elsie Burns who I," he hesitated only a moment, "care deeply for. I received this letter today." He pulled the stiff envelope and letter from his pocket to hand to Mr. Crawley before continuing, "It would appear that her husband has found her."

Mr. Crawley took the letter from him and glanced over the contents with a frown. "Is there somewhere we can speak privately?" He looked to Mrs. Johnstone, and she nodded.

"Come along," she said, "You're welcome to my kitchen, but with three little ones and my man due back at anytime, I'm not sure how private it will be."

Charles followed reluctantly, irritation increasing exponentially. He didn't need to speak privately. He needed to find Elsie. That man had smacked her across the face, and Mrs. Johnstone knew where she was. An ocean? What could she have meant by that?

By the time they'd made the short walk to Mrs. Johnstone's house, he had come up with the answer. Before walking in, he stopped the woman with a hand on her shoulder, "She plans to emigrate doesn't she? Where?"

She clamped her mouth into a tight line, and Charles let a little more of his irritation show, "Did she make you promise not to tell me?"

"I'll not comment on that, Mr. Carson," she said, eyes darting away from his.

Mr. Crawley glanced around and urged them both through the door, eager to get this discussion off the street.

After taking off his overcoat, Mr. Crawley sat down at the table to read the letter more carefully. Mrs. Johnstone bustled about brewing tea, and Charles stood staring out the window with hands thrust into his pockets. He had no intention of getting comfortable while he formed his plan.

**_Reviews are welcome as always._**


	16. A Queue

**_Disclaimer-I still don't own them and earn nothing from them but pleasure._**

Elsie was queued up patiently in the shipping office. A quick glance at her watch told her that the office would likely close before she would be able to purchase her ticket. Perhaps she should leave now to find a room for the night. A very cheap room, she thought as she reviewed her finances. She had made her decision. She would book third class passage on the first available ship, and then look for a position in the town until her ship sailed. Surely she could find something as a day-maid or maid-of-all-work if nothing else. All the money she could save here would make her life that much easier when she arrived in New York. It seemed strange to think of going to such a different world, but it would be worth it. No matter how much Charles had insisted that he was fully prepared to be co-respondent in her divorce, she was certain he wasn't ready for the reality. The reality of losing the good name that he'd spent years building. The reality of Joe likely insisting that she give him the fifty pounds he claimed she had stolen. He likely wouldn't finalize the divorce without it. She didn't have the money to pay that and doubted that Charles did either; not that she would ask him to impoverish himself for her.

The door opened behind her, and she squeezed forward to make room for yet another person in the tiny ticket office. She was startled when she felt a touch on her elbow and heard a rumbling voice behind her, "Thank you for keeping our place dear, but I'll wait now if you wish."

She turned around to see that Charles was right behind her and smiling down at her benevolently. The others in the queue were grumbling, but Charles turned his commanding presence toward them, "I am terribly sorry, but surely you wouldn't want to separate us. We've only just found each other and want to start a new life together." He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

The women in the queue sighed and smiled at her while the men mumbled quietly. He lifted his eyebrows at her over her hand, but she merely rolled her eyes at him. Extracting her hand from his as gracefully as she could, she turned her back on him and looked steadily forward.

She whispered from the side of her mouth, "I suppose Mrs. Johnstone couldn't keep quiet."

"Mrs. Johnstone loves you and wants to see you happy, but she did not specifically tell me where you were," he leaned down to speak just as quietly beside her ear, breath teasing the sensitive skin of her neck.

She shivered and he put his hand on the small of her back, asking out loud, "Cold dear?" He shifted closer to her to pretend to lend her his warmth.

She glared at him through her eyelashes and hoped he understood just how uncomfortable he was making her. From the twitching of the muscle at the edge of his lips, he apparently did.

Sighing, she turned toward him and brushed imaginary lint off his coat. He bent so that she could reach his shoulder easier, and she spoke softly in his ear, gratified to see a shiver run through him as well, "Then how did you find me?"

He smiled at her warmly, "I merely informed Mrs. Johnstone that I knew you would leave through Liverpool."

She looked at him in confusion and moved her hand from brushing off his coat to straightening his tie, "But this is Blackpool."

"Exactly," he straightened, smiled at her proudly, and rocked forward on his toes.

"Devious man," she scolded and glanced at the queue behind her. Reluctantly, she decided that they had to have this out privately, and since they'd never get to the front today, they could just as well leave now.

"We'll not be able to buy our tickets today anyway. Come along," she said, picking up her bag and then, taking his hand with her free one, tugged him out of the office. As they left, she heard some amused mutters and whispers about eagerness. Once they were outside of the office, Charles stopped her and took her bag.

"If you'll take my elbow, it would look more natural," he said and started purposefully down the street. As they walked along, he asked, "Am I right in assuming that you haven't secured a room for the evening?"

"No, I've not," she said, "but I don't see what that has to do with..."

"I have a room for us," he said, "We can wash off a bit of the travel and then get a bite to eat, or if you'd rather, you can stay in the room, and I'll bring something up."

He smiled at the astonishment on her face, "I told the manager that my wife was waiting at the station while I found a room. I don't know if he fully believed me or not, but he'll not question your presence. I paid him enough to ensure that."

She dropped his arm and stopped short, "You what? Charles Carson have you gone out of your mind? I can't stay in a hotel room with you as your wife! And you paying for that man to...Charles, it's not right."

He motioned her into an alley and dropped the bags on the ground, "No more right than me spending that rainy night with you, but it was necessary then and it's necessary now."

She leaned back against the wall and refused to look at him. He was not the type of man that she thought he was. What was he thinking? Actually, she probably knew what he was thinking and the truth was that she wasn't far from thinking the same thing. She would be going away soon. An ocean would be between them. Would one night really be so bad? Surely fate owed them that.

His hand was on the wall beside her head, and she could feel his breath on her forehead and the warmth of his body just barely touching hers. He spoke softly and seriously, "Elsie, look at me." He waited until she was before continuing, "If I didn't take advantage when I was in the same bed with you, I certainly won't just because we're in the same room. We need a place we can speak privately, and this will serve that purpose and another as well. After we've talked, I'll find you another room or sleep on a park bench if you want me to."

"Not in this weather, you won't. It may not be raining, but I'll not have you freeze to death," Then her eyes crinkled in confusion as she realized what he'd said, "Another purpose?"

He nodded shortly, "Do you trust me?"

She looked at him, studied the face that she had come to know so well in such a short time. The hazel eyes that changed with his moods and that always seemed able to read hers. The beginnings of stubble on his strong jaw that was set in a determined line with the familiar muscle that twitched. The small scar on his chin that he'd said came from another life. The lips that smiled at her over a teacup and laughed at her humor and pressed together while he was thinking and felt so soft against her own.

"Yes, Charles, I trust you," she whispered, "I always have."

"Then come along, and I'll tell you our plan," he said, turning from her to pick up their bags. When he turned back, he smiled reassuringly, "Just remember, for tonight at least, you're Mrs. Carson."

Her heart skipped then started to race. "Yes, Mr. Carson, all night."

He stumbled, then looked at her sharply with cheeks flaming red. She shook her head at him and took his arm.

Yes, fate owed them this night and she intended to enjoy it fully.

**_Reviews are welcome as always._**


	17. A Room

**_There have been some reviews essentially demanding smut. I'm sorry if anyone is disappointed with this story, but this is not intended to be a smut-fest. There will at some point be some mature maturity between mature people, but that is not the focus of this particular story. There are many other stories about this couple where smut reigns (not a few of them written by me). If that is all you are looking for there are much better stories out there, and I encourage you to find them, enjoy them, and review. (kouw, sensitivebore, Jaberwokkette, and Maple Fay are a few of the best smut writers out there)_**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own them. Have no intention to steal them (not really) and plan to return them (maybe) when finished._**

Charles was only slightly discombobulated by the smirk the clerk had given him when he retrieved their key. The glance that the man had shot down to Elsie's, thankfully gloved, hand had made him want to tug at his collar, but he was glad that he was able to avoid blushing. But now he found himself hesitant about unlocking the door to their room. Their. The pronoun alone made him nervous. It had been different that rainy night. They were more or less forced into staying together by circumstances, but tonight, no matter what he might pretend otherwise, there were other choices that could be made. Elsie's soft voice spurred him to action.

"Did he give you the wrong key?"

He turned to see her looking at him with a concerned frown, "No, I want to make sure we're making the right decision, though."

She put her hand reassuringly on his forearm, "The only decision we're making right now is to talk. Let's leave worrying about anything else for later."

He smiled and nodded, "Wise woman." He opened the door and waved her in, "After you my lady."

She entered but looked back at him with a smile, "I am no lady."

"You are, Elsie," he said very seriously, "Never forget that you are."

Then he picked up their bags and set them just inside the door, shutting and locking it behind him. Elsie stood awkwardly twisting the handle on her handbag and looking around the room. He followed her gaze until both sets of eyes settled on the bed for an uncomfortable moment.

Charles tugged at his collar and then began to rub the top of his ear, "Um, would you prefer the bed or the chair?" He closed his eyes for a moment, "That didn't really come out right. I mean would you prefer that you sit on the bed while I sit in the chair or vice versa, for our little chat."

"I'll sit on the bed. You'd probably be more comfortable on the chair."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, and his mind was instantly filled with images of pushing her back on the bed, taking the pins from her hair, kissing her neck, unbuttoning her blouse so that he could nuzzle the valley between her breasts, pulling up the hem of her skirt and...

"Maybe you should take the chair," he said in a rush, "You've had a much harder," he cringed at his choice of words, "I mean more difficult day than I have."

She looked at him curiously but agreed, and he waited until she had settled in the chair before sitting down uncomfortably on the bed and again his mind was filled with images. This time of her standing between his legs and running her fingers through his hair, pulling his head against her chest, and of him trailing his fingers up her thighs before lifting her to sit astride him while he ran his hands under the edge of her skirt and...

He jumped up, "Would you mind very much if I stand? I can't seem to get comfortable."

"Charles, what on earth is the matter?" she asked, "You were the one who wanted somewhere private to talk."

"I did," he agreed, "I still do." With an appraising glance at her, he admitted, "I just underestimated how having you alone in a room with a bed would affect me."

"I see," she blushed and glanced fleetingly at the piece of furniture in question before looking back to him. "Would you like to go elsewhere?"

"No," he answered with a rueful smile, "I don't think I'll be overcome with the urge to ravish you, not immediately at least, and this really would be the best place to speak privately."

"Very well," she said, "Then speak."

He paused and paced for a moment, looking out the window but careful to keep distance both from the bed and her. She didn't need him looming for the moment. Finally he asked the question that had been at the forefront of his mind, "Did he hurt you? Mrs. Johnstone mentioned that he was rough."

"Not very much," she said, eyes dropping to the floor, "Nothing to trouble yourself about."

"Don't you understand woman?" he ground out, letting his frustration show, "Everything about you troubles me."

She met his gaze, "My arm is a little sore from where he grabbed me but nothing else."

He chewed his jaw, "Mrs. Johnstone said he smacked you."

Her mouth set in a tight line and she looked away, "Mrs. Johnstone talks far too much."

"And you not enough." The words burst out of him. "Why didn't you come to me right away? Why run?"

"Charles, he knows," she said coldly, "he knows about you. I'm sure he'll name you as co-respondent."

"Excellent!" he said smile stretching his lips, "The best news I've had all day, other than seeing you in that office."

She nearly leapt out of her chair, "Charles, don't be ridiculous! You have no idea what you're saying. Your reputation..."

"Means far less to me than getting you away from that man." He held up his hands to calm her.

She let out a cry of frustration and looked up to the ceiling, "That's just it Charles. You'll go through all that, and I'll still not be free. He's saying that I took fifty pounds. He'll demand that before...before...," her voice started shaking and he couldn't bear to watch anymore. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her against his chest.

"Darling woman, you don't understand," he soothed her, rubbing his hands over her back, "He's shown he can be bought, now we just have to negotiate the price. A very wise man told me once that any problem that can be solved with money isn't really a problem."

Her hands tightened into fists and she spoke into his chest, "You're insane, Charles. What if there's no negotiating?"

He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back gently, "I am not insane. I am," he paused and bent to touch his lips to hers, "in love." He straightened and put his hand on her cheek, thumb stroking her lips, "Elsie, I was fifty-eight years old on my last birthday. I have spent most of those years surrounded by people but alone. When we met, I, we just seemed to fit," he struggled to find the right words, "We match. It's like when I find just the right wine to complement a particular dish. They each bring out the best qualities in the other. They match. They fit. We fit."

She smiled against his thumb, "So you are comparing me to food?"

"No, you are claret," he answered her seriously, twirling a bit of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, "I've already established that. Your hair is like claret and you too as well, I believe. Earthy, complex, bold."

"And that would make you?" she asked, fingers trailing above the edge of his collar.

"A prime piece of aged beef," he smiled and lifted his eyebrows suggestively before lowering his lips to hers.

She returned his kiss with a fervor that he hadn't expected and that caused him to pull away to calm himself. Her lips chased him, and he didn't retreat for long. He trailed kisses along her jaw to the area below her left ear. She sighed and pressed herself even closer to him.

After enjoying his exploration of her neck for a few moments, he whispered against the moist skin, "You remember I said that this room would serve another purpose?"

She leaned back to look in his eyes briefly before her gaze dropped to her shoulder, "Charles, I may not be a woman of the world, but I believe I can guess."

His cheeks flamed, "Elsie, Mr. Crawley said..."

"He knows?" she exclaimed, pushing him away, "I thought you talked about a friend."

"He came upon me speaking with Mrs. Johnstone this afternoon," he explained patiently and put his hands back on her waist, "I let him read the letter."

"Letter?"

"From Mr. Burns. Explaining his intention to name me as co-respondent."

"Already?"

"I received it this morning," he explained, "I foolishly thought it had come in the mail, but it had only been slid under the door. He must have hand-delivered it and then gone straight to you. I took too much time. I should have come right away, then you wouldn't be hurt."

"And you'd likely be in jail for beating him," she said, shaking her head, "You have to remember that he is my husband. In the eyes of the law, we are in the wrong."

"The law is wrong," he said firmly, "Any law that would require you to stay with a man like that is wrong, but Mr. Crawley does believe that this might be the simplest way. We just need to establish more evidence."

"More evidence?" she asked, her hand working its way under his waistcoat to rest just above his racing heart.

He nodded dumbly, struggling to retain the thread of the conversation while he watched her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, "Of, um, well, co-responding I suppose."

"Ah, so this room for Mr. and Mrs. Carson, the clerk, the shipping office," she nodded, her own eyes fixed on his lips.

He dipped his lips to hers once more briefly before answering, "Will all provide ample evidence," he paused to kiss her again, "along with Mrs. Johnstone finding us in a state of undress," he trailed his hand down her back and pulled her tighter against him, "and my not returning to Downton Abbey on that same night." His lips locked with hers and he poured all his care for her, his love, and his desire into the kiss. She met him and matched his passion.

He pulled back, dizzy, and said in a voice deep with desire, "Elsie, we don't have to...That is, appearances are all that matter. I can, I will find another room if you wish it."

She studied him, hand on his cheek and then pushing back the always errant curl on his forehead. A chaste kiss was placed first on his nose and then his lips before she spoke, "I'll not have you perjure yourself."

**_Reviews are welcome as always_**


	18. A Sandwich

_**Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review this story. **_

_**Disclaimer: Neither own them or earn anything from them but pleasure and I wish them a minimum of harm. **_

Elsie was starting to get uncomfortable. Straining up to reach Charles's lips was difficult, and surely his back must be near to breaking. He was bent almost double to kiss her mouth and to trail his lips along her neck to, oh yes, that perfect spot that made her sigh in contentment. On the other hand, she thought she could quite cheerfully stand here for days if he could continue to make her feel like that. There was the bed though. It would be more comfortable. Should she suggest it? That seemed far too bold. Then he cupped her bottom and drew her even tighter against him so that she could feel his hardness against her. She gasped from surprise now, and he relaxed his hold on her, lifting his head to look at her questioningly. Before she could reassure him, there was a knock on the door, and she jumped nearly out of her skin.

"Bloody hell," he growled, releasing her instantly, and she stumbled a little at the loss of support.

He reached out to steady her and said softly, "I'm sorry, love. I just don't know who would be bothering us."

The knock came again, a little more insistent.

She swallowed quickly. Could it be Joe? He couldn't have followed her, could he? She glanced at Charles and could see by the way his mouth was set that he had the same thought. He gestured for her to stand behind the chair, but she paused and smoothed the hair on his forehead back and straightened his jacket. A grin was playing around his lips as he stepped to the door. Taking a deep breath to gather himself, he answered the door in full butler mode and with a straight face.

There was a serving girl standing there with a covered tray on a cart along with a bottle. She was only slightly intimidated by Charles's glare. "Your sandwiches, sir."

He was momentarily taken aback, "Ah, yes, I ordered sandwiches." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a few coins which he pressed into her hand while he took the tray from her.

Door safely closed behind him, he turned back to Elsie and repeated himself, "I ordered sandwiches. Would you like? That is, are you hungry?"

When she'd stepped over to the chair, she had clasped her hands together, expecting the worst. Now she was twisting them into knots. His question surprised a laugh out of her, "No, that is I don't know that I could eat anything if I tried."

His eyes narrowed at her, "You're nervous?"

"Yes. No. I mean, yes, I am, but I want, that is I don't want to stop," she said and her hands flew to her face to hide her embarrassment. This was a mortifying conversation. Couldn't he just kiss her again so that she didn't have to think?

He stepped silently to her side, damnable butler's skills, and surprised her by tugging gently at her hands.

"Elsie, love, we don't have to do anything," he said softly, but she could hear the regret in his voice. "I told you once that I'd make no demands of you."

She dropped her hands from her face and studied his with a worried frown, "But you want me, don't you?"

He looked at her, "Surely you could feel that I do, but I asked what you wanted."

"I want to make you happy," she said, reaching for his shoulders.

He caught her hands in his, "You've spent far too much time trying to make someone else happy." He hesitated and studied her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, "From what you said, I don't think you took much pleasure in this before. I don't want it to be that way with me."

She put her free hand on his cheek, unable to bear the worry she heard in his voice, "It's not. At least, I don't think it will be. It was never this way. I didn't enjoy… Oh for heaven's sake, you could kiss me for hours, and I wouldn't mind."

"Hours?" he asked and his amused pride was apparent, "That would be a little uncomfortable. My neck was already starting to cramp a bit."

Her eyes dropped again to their joined hands, and she whispered so low that he leaned toward her to hear, "Certainly there are other options?"

He tilted her chin up so that he could meet her eyes, "There is one other option."

Her eyes flitted to the bed and then back to see that he was watching her with a patient question in his eyes. She answered him by lifting herself on her toes so that she could meet his lips and pushing him ever so gently back toward the bed. He smiled against her mouth and his arms were around her again in an instant. Brief, light kisses were placed on her lips as he backed slowly toward the bed and pulled her with him.

When the back of his legs met the edge of bed, he sat down and drew her to stand between his thighs. She found she liked this position. Being at nearly eye level with him made it much easier to kiss him, and she was no longer straining uncomfortably upward. His hands skimmed along the edge of her waist, fingertips ghosting under the edge of her skirt, thumbs making circles on her back.

As she brushed her hands across his upper back, she began to be frustrated by the cloth bunching up under her hands. Finally, she leaned back and pushed his jacket off his shoulders. He chuckled low in his throat and said, "If you'll be patient, dear, I'd like to get just a little more comfortable."

She swallowed quickly, wondering if he meant for her to get undressed as well. He must have noticed her discomfort because he clarified lightly, "I mean that I'd certainly prefer to have this collar off, it itches; and the waistcoat too if you don't mind."

He had tie and collar off first and scrubbed his palm over the reddened skin of his neck. She pushed his hand aside and trailed first her fingers and then her lips just above the edge of his shirt, "I like you without the collar. You look a bit more like Charles and less the stuffy butler."

He shivered under her kisses and swallowed convulsively. "That feels wonderful," he sighed against her ear and she felt his voice vibrate against her lips.

He leaned back again and looked at her, smiling hesitantly, "Elsie, I, at least, would like to wash a bit of the travel off before, well, before any more. Would you mind very much?"

"No, no," she said almost, but not quite completely, grateful for a chance to cool her racing thoughts a little, "I would like that as well." She looked into his eyes questioningly, "And I should change into my nightdress?"

"That would be," his voice nearly squeaked until he cleared his throat, "yes, that would be nice. Um, would you like to go first?"

She nodded and stepped somewhat reluctantly away from him so that she could pick up her case. When she bent to retrieve it, she heard a groan from behind her and turned to look at a wide-eyed Charles. He smiled at her weakly, "A very nice sight."

She blushed, but as she walked toward the bathing room she let her hips sway and heard another groan behind her. A surge of pride welled up in her at the power she had over this man.

Just before she entered the bathing room, she had a sudden worrying thought and turned back to him, "You won't go anywhere will you? I mean you'll be here when I'm finished?"

"I will most certainly be here when you finish, waiting patiently for as long as necessary," he said seriously.

She smiled at him, confidence continuing to grow, "Good, but perhaps you should eat some of the sandwiches because I very much want to finish everything we've started tonight."

His low groan and chuckle only made her smile wider as she shut the door behind her, anticipating the night that was to come.

_**Reviews are welcome as always. (Sorry to be so cruel with the break, but updates will come soon.)**_


	19. A Vow

_**There is some mature maturity among mature people in this chapter, I still think the fic warrents a 'T' rating, but if anyone's sensibilites are offended please let me know. Feel free to skip this chapter if you're inclined.**_

_**Disclaimer: Not owned, leased, or borrowed by me. I earn nothing from them and mean them no harm.**_

Charles looked down in disgust. He couldn't go out there like this. She'd laugh, and that really wouldn't be the best start to the rest of the evening as far as he was concerned. He should never have accepted the valise from Mrs. Johnstone. She'd put a few of Mr. Johnstone's things in 'just in case.' Ha. Just in case she wanted to make Charles Carson look like a total idiot. Her husband must be a dwarf. And a nightshirt? Who on earth still wore a nightshirt for sleep? He sighed. He supposed he really had no other choice. He really didn't want his trousers any more wrinkled than they already were, and he'd already taken off his shirt and waistcoat in the other room while Elsie was bathing. When he thought of how lovely she'd looked when she emerged, eyes shining and hair loose, he was doubly embarrassed. Finally, with a deep sigh and a final tug at the bottom of the nightshirt to cover a bit more of his thigh, he opened the door and stepped back into the bedroom.

Elsie was sitting up in the bed stiffly with a book on her knees but staring at the fire he'd lit in the hearth. The light from the lamp made the top of her nightdress nearly transparent, and the fire warmed her features. His breath left him at the beautiful sight that she made. Her eyes immediately turned to him when the door clicked shut behind him, and he saw her amusement clearly written in her features. To hide his embarrassment, he turned and strode quickly to the wardrobe to hang his trousers. As he reached in for a hanger, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and looked back over his shoulder to see the amusement wiped off her face. He turned back toward the bed with a grin. Perhaps the nightshirt wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"Charles, what is that?" her eyes were still fixed below his waist.

His grin widened but he kept his tone somber, "I believe, dear Elsie, that it is known as a nightshirt, although I haven't seen one for many years."

Finally, she looked up to his face, "I thought you wore pyjamas. At least, that's what you did have."

"I didn't exactly bring a valise to Ripon with me planning to chase after you," he said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he walked toward the bed. He was gratified to see her eyes drop once again. "When I decided to try to intercept you, I asked Mrs. Johnstone for the loan of a valise, to make things look more real. She very kindly offered a few of her husband's things." By this time he'd reached the bed and he decided that a little teasing would do no harm, "Um, Elsie, do you think you could look up here? At my face?"

Her cheeks flamed becomingly, and she instantly looked up but then her eyes dropped fleetingly once again, "I was looking at your face. That is, I would like to look at your face but that is distracting."

"The nightshirt?" he asked, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

He saw her mouth set in a firm line, "No. Your legs. They're rather nice and distracting."

"Obviously," he said, "Perhaps I should get in the bed to cover them up."

A smile was on her lips now as well, "Perhaps you should, but Charles," she hesitated for a moment, "Mr. Johnstone is half your size. That nightshirt can't be comfortable."

"Well, no, not really," he said slowly, "But I don't really have any alternative. I don't think I could go out and buy a pair of pyjamas at this time of night."

"Take it off."

His mouth gaped and he was dismayed by the rise in pitch of his voice, "Off?"

Her face was brilliantly red now, and the blush was spreading down her neckline. "Well, it's not as if you plan on keeping it on for long anyway. At least I didn't think you planned, or that you planned to…," she took a deep breath, "Is there really any need to pretend?"

He hesitated only another moment before reaching for the edge of the nightshirt and pulling it over his head. Standing before her in only his undershorts, he fought the urge to dive immediately under the blankets, "No, no, I suppose there's not." He watched her eyes as they traveled down his chest and was gratified to see appreciation there. "Do I meet with my lady's approval?"

She nodded quickly and lifted the blankets beside her. Once he was in the bed, he turned to blow out the lamp. She stopped him with her hand on his bare back and a shiver ran through him. "No, I enjoy being able to see you. If that isn't too much?"

"Not too much at all," he leaned back against the headboard so that he was sitting beside her and put his arm around her shoulders to draw her to his side. "You're reading?"

She rolled her eyes at him, closed her book with a snap and handed it to him, "I was thinking with a book open on my lap."

"Ahhh," he said and placed the book on the table beside him. He focused his eyes on the fire and looked at her from the corner of his eye, "I'm not very good at being scandalous, am I?"

She laughed softly and turned toward him, laying her head on his chest, "Neither am I."

"Here I've chased after my lover to Blackpool, lured her to a hotel room, and I don't even have nightclothes that fit." He chuckled and drew her closer, hand caressing her back.

She brushed her lips against his chest, "Firstly, I don't think you need nightclothes to be scandalous. Secondly, you didn't lure me, I came completely willingly. And thirdly…"

Her voice trailed off so he scooted down the bed to face her fully and prompted her, "Thirdly?"

"Not yet," she said softly and leaned forward to kiss him.

He pulled back in concern before she could kiss him, "Elsie, if you're not ready then I'll not force you, but I probably should leave or at least sit in the chair." After a very cold bath, he added to himself.

"No, no," she was quick to reassure him, "I only meant that when you chased after me I wasn't your lover yet."

"Ahh," he answered and leaned forward to let her kiss him, "But now?"

She kissed him before whispering against his lips, "We're becoming that, aren't we?"

He lost track of the conversation as her breasts pressed against his chest. The thin cotton of her nightdress wasn't enough to keep him from feeling the stiff peaks of her nipples brushing his. His hand rested on her hip, and he shifted his hips closer to hers.

She stretched her legs out against him, and he allowed her to press him back just a little. He didn't want to press her in any way. He was desperate that this time, their first time, be perfect if it was in his power to make it so.

Kissing a trail along the scar on her jaw, he smiled to hear her sigh in pleasure. He reverently trailed his hand up from her hip to cup her breast gently, and she gasped. It was like making music. Perhaps not tonight, but soon he intended to find each part of her body that would cause her to make just that sound. Then her hands had found their way back to his chest, and he was gasping as she explored. Her fingertips slid through the hair on his chest, brushed his nipples, trailed along his collarbone and then to his upper back to draw him closer.

His hand left her breast and cupped her bottom to draw her closer, as close as possible, and then just a little bit closer. She pressed herself even tighter against him, and he needed to feel her; to feel her skin against him. He grasped the bottom of her nightdress and leaned back for only a moment to ensure himself that there was no concern in her eyes before he lifted it up past her hip and returned his grip to her now bare bottom. He tried to calm himself by laying out the place settings for a five course meal, but then the hand on his back, that he had been ignoring, worked its way under the edge of his undershorts and cupped his bottom. He surged forward and pushed her onto her back under him before lifting his hips to work the blasted undershorts off.

She gasped again and something was different enough about it to make him open his eyes to look at her. There was concern in her eyes and she was biting her lower lip. He stopped and leaned forward again to press his forehead against hers. " 'm sorry love. Slower. I'll go slower. Forgive me. I don't want to hurt you."

She shook her head and smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips and reaching down for the waistband of his undershorts, "You'd never hurt me. I know that. It was just a moment. So much. You're making me feel so much."

He reached down to help her rid him of the last of his clothes and then cupped her face in his hands to place a reverent kiss on her lips, "For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, I take thee to love and to cherish. With my body I thee worship and all my worldly goods I thee endow."

As he finished his vow to her, he helped her to sit up so that he could pull her nightdress over her head and draw her into his arms. He held her close now that they were both as God had made them and not doubting that God had made them to be together.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	20. A Scar

_**Sorry for the lateness, but the weather's been wonderful, and I needed to give and get a little TLC.**_

_**Disclaimer: Still don't own them. Will return them when expired.**_

Elsie woke to a heavy feeling on her chest. She stretched sleepily and felt confined by a hard, a very hard, object behind her. As she slowly came to her senses, she realized that she was surrounded by Charles. One of his arms was supporting her head and the other was draped over her breasts. His head was on her shoulder, and she was certain she recognized the part that was snugged against her bottom. Stretching her legs out along his, she pressed her bottom a little more firmly against that part and was rewarded with a low grunt.

She turned her attention to the arm draped over her chest and noticed the scar there. She'd seen the edge of it before but had never dreamed it was such a long, jagged stretch of raised skin. She traced it with a finger and was surprised by the rumbling voice in her ear, "Have you not noticed that one before, love?"

"I just didn't realize how long it was. Was it very painful?" she asked, concerned for the long ago hurt.

"Very," he kissed the scar on her shoulder lightly, "but pain fades, just as scars do."

"How did you get it?" she asked, then instantly wished she'd kept her mouth shut. She'd watched as his eyes cataloged each and every scar on her body while they'd made love. He was sure to ask, and she was just as sure that she didn't want to relive the circumstances surrounding each one. He'd noticed the one on her jaw months ago and had seen one or two others since, but he'd never asked for the stories behind them although she was certain that he wanted to know.

His hand moved to cup her breast, and his thumb stroked it thoughtfully, pausing to explore the scar on the outside edge. She was sure he wouldn't answer, maybe had even dozed off again, when he began, "You know I helped my father when I was a boy."

She smiled and pulled his palm to her lips, "I still can't see you mucking out stalls."

"I wasn't born wearing livery and white gloves," he chided lightly, "but I'm sure at times I was more of a nuisance than a help."

"Never," she teased, "I don't see how you would be distracting at all." She pressed her bottom firmly against his groin again.

He growled playfully before kissing her ear, "Do you want to hear this story or not woman?"

"I'll be good. I promise," she turned her head to brush a kiss against his nose.

"You already were," he smiled, nipping at her shoulder, "but will you behave?"

"Tell your story and stop trying to distract me," she laughed and pulled his arm tighter around her.

"There were kittens," he began again.

"Never tell me a kitten gave you that scar," she teased, "Is everything big in Yorkshire?"

He turned her over to face him and kissed her soundly, pressing against her, "Everything. But no, a kitten didn't give it to me. I was climbing in the stable loft to see the kittens. A particular one caught my fancy. Ginger if I recall correctly." He smiled at the memory and bent to kiss her temple just at the edge of her hair, "Odd that. I should have known gingers are always trouble."

She laughed outright now and stretched her arms around his neck, "Stop teasing and finish your story so we can move on to other business."

"I was trying to bring the kitten out of the loft, and Mama Cat wasn't happy. She swiped at me. I fell off the ladder and a nail cut my arm as I fell, very deep and dirty. Landed flat on my back and it knocked the breath out of me. I thought I was dead until I heard Da yelling at me," he laughed, "The wound was pretty bad. Mother worried that it would get infected, washed it out every day with carbolic acid and alcohol. After that, she wanted me to have no more to do with the stables. Had her hopes pinned on me working in a big house as footman and maybe butler someday." Then he added, ruefully, "I still snuck out and brushed horses nearly every night. There were always rows about that. The first of many, I'm afraid."

"Smart woman, your mother," she said, suppressing a shudder at the thought of him falling from a loft. If he'd landed wrong, he could have been crippled or worse, and if the scar was that bad his mother was right to be worried about infection. "What happened to your ginger?"

"At the moment, she's very pleased with herself and asking far too many questions," he waggled his eyebrows at her.

"Beastly man," she said, "I meant the kitten and you know it."

"Oh her," he answered, "jumped right out of my arms and back to the loft before I fell. Clever girl."

Her hand trailed down his ribs and side to come to rest on his hip, "Maybe not so clever to run away from you. I'm sure you would have spoiled her terribly. Milk and scraps from the table, petted her every night until she fell asleep on your lap."

"Probably," he said and kissed her cheek, "Always did have a soft spot for gingers."

She turned her head so that she could reach his lips, "Good."

He bent and nuzzled her breast, taking the peak into his mouth for a moment before gently kissing the scar, "This one, Elsie, tell me about this one."

She turned her head away and tried to roll onto her side and curl into a ball, but he held his arms steady on either side of her so that she was forced to stay on her back. "Charles, no, I don't want…"

"Elsie," he whispered softly against her breast, "I've not asked how before and I'll not about the others. You can tell me in your own time and your own way, but this one… You told me he wasn't rough with you in this way."

"He wasn't," she said, eyes studying the top of his head, "Only the once. He didn't have to be after that. I did my duty."

He ground out a harsh whisper, "Duty? This isn't duty. This is pleasure. This is, is worship. 'With my body I thee worship.'"

"To you it is, Charles," she said, hand tracing patterns on his back, "You give." Then her hand clenched into a fist, "He took." She sighed and the story rushed out of her, "We'd only been married a few months. He wanted a son very much, an heir. I thought that I was, that we were going to have a child, but it turned out not to be. That made him angry. One night I was tired. He wasn't. I turned away, and he pulled me back. He was harsh. He, he," her voice had dropped to the barest whisper, "he bit me among other things." Then her voice grew strong again, "After that I knew better. I didn't turn away. I did my duty, and he took."

Charles's hold had tightened on her while she spoke and his muscles were trembling. She felt moisture against her breast and realized it was a tear.

Then before she knew what he was doing, he was kissing both breasts and then down to the scar on her hip. He rose and turned her hand over to press his lips to the scar on her wrist and the one on her shoulder before he finally traced the scar along the edge of her jaw with tiny kisses. He finished his path by parting her lips with his tongue and kissing her deeply. It felt as though he was anointing her, pouring his love, himself into her.

When he pulled back, he spoke fiercely but clearly, "He will not hurt you again. I promise that. I'll do whatever it takes to keep that from happening."

"Shhh love," she said, a little afraid of the determination she saw in his eyes, "Let's not talk about him. Not here. Not now. I just want to love you, to give you some of what you've given me." She grabbed his face in both hands and pressed fierce kisses to his lips, parting them so that she could pour her love and herself into him. He returned her kisses with added passion, and she could feel the hard length of him against her thigh.

She opened herself to him, and he eased into her body again. They moved against each other, out of rhythm at first, before they finally found the right pattern of rising and falling together. His lips nuzzled her neck and then her breast while she kissed his cheek and traced the outline of his ear with her tongue. She trailed her hands from his shoulders down the strong muscles of his back while he gripped her hips as the rhythm of their rocking hips increased.

When they both came, panting and sighing together, she knew that she had given everything she had to him and had received it all back double-fold.

She had been so worried about being burned, about losing herself again to a man, but this was a fire that would burn but not consume. This man gave and only received what she gave in return. There was no taking, no destroying. This was real love, and she would give up everything to protect it.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	21. A Promise

_**I'm glad you're still enjoying this fic. I have changed the rating back to T because after reading back over the last couple of chapters, I felt that was more appropriate.**_

_**Disclaimer: Not owned, borrowed, or leased by me. If begging would make them mine, they would be.**_

Charles felt Elsie watching him as he carefully drew the razor down his cheek to scrape away the stubble. At least Mrs. Johnstone had included one useful thing in the valise. Although as he thought back over the evening, the nightshirt hadn't turned out too poorly.

"And what is that wicked smile about dear man?" she teased, meeting his eyes in the mirror as she pinned her hair.

He paused with the razor inches from his face, "I was just thinking that I might have to thank Mrs. Johnstone for that nightshirt. It seemed to work rather well."

Her cheeks tinted faintly pink, and she ducked her head, "Don't you dare."

That would never do. He finished shaving quickly and washed the last of the soap off his face before putting his hands on her shoulders to turn her toward him, "Elsie, you do realize that everyone will know what we've done once the divorce is filed. I suppose we will be the only ones who ever know the details, but…"

"I do know that Charles," she answered, smoothing her hands over his shoulders, "and you, us, making love, showing love to each other doesn't embarrass me, not really. I've thought about what you said weeks ago. The vows were broken the first time he raised his hand against me." She met his eyes again and asked, "Are you prepared though? Your reputation will be destroyed. I can't imagine Downton Abbey being happy that their butler has been having a scandalous affair."

Charles's shoulders rolled, and he turned away from her to look in the mirror. Picking up his shirt, he buttoned it while he decided that now was likely the best time to tell her. He cleared his throat and spoke to the buttons on his shirt, "They are not. I spoke with Lord Grantham before I left for Ripon. He knows that I'll be the co-respondent, but he thinks it's all been a misunderstanding. He wants me to go to court immediately and tell the judge just that." He looked back to the mirror to meet her eyes.

"A misunderstanding?" she asked, staring at his reflection steadily, "How could he think all of this is a misunderstanding?"

"Well, he knows my reputation. He would never believe it of me," Charles said, eyes dropping again, "and I did tell him that although things could be construed that you and I were intimate, we had not actually 'done the deed' so to speak, which at the time was true," he was quick to add while he pulled his waistcoat on and then reached for his collar. "I also insisted that I would be glad to be named co-respondent if it would free you from this marriage. He wasn't entirely happy, but he wants to meet you, to see us together. I'm sure that Mr. Crawley has apprised him of the happenings in Ripon by this time, and he at least is on our side."

"Oh Charles," she buried her face in her hands, "our employer. How could you be so frank with him?"

He tugged her hands gently away from her face. "He might be our employer, but you need to remember that I served as his valet when he was home from school or his regiment when he was a young man. Once you've helped a man out of a bath and into his clothes, a certain amount of trust is built up. There was also more than one occasion when I helped sneak him in through a back window either at Downton or in London so that his mother wouldn't know what deeds he'd done. Finally, my reputation is impeccable. His first reaction upon reading that letter was that it must have been sent to me by mistake." He tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat , "Come to think of it, that's a bit insulting. It's not as though I'm incapable of seducing a beautiful young woman."

His attempt to lighten the conversation apparently failed because she only worried her bottom lip more, "You have an impeccable reputation _now_, until all this becomes public. Then you'll be a man seduced by a woman who deserted her husband. A man who sneaks around in hotels with women he is not married to. What will your Lord Grantham say then? The gentry can do as they like and it's winked at, but the likes of us, we're to marry and stay that way, no matter what."

Her voice had grown progressively more bitter and her teeth chewed more fiercely at her bottom lip. He focused on the first thing that came to mind, "Woman."

"What?" she asked, finally releasing her bottom lip. He noticed a speck of blood. She needed to stop that habit.

"I do wish you'd stop chewing your bottom lip when you're upset. You've lovely lips and I hate to see them injured," he said quietly, taking her cheek in his hand and brushing the small mark with his thumb. "I said that I only sneak around with one woman who is _not yet_ my wife. I have every intention of making that one woman my wife as soon as we are able. If not, I would never have brought you here. I am not that type of man, and you are most certainly not that type of woman."

She started to protest, but he cut her off again with raised hands, "Elsie, my reputation will still be in our favor. As will your demeanor. Lady Grantham hired you despite knowing you were separated from your husband, didn't she? She had surmised what you'd been through and had told Lord Grantham. They may not want scandal, but they'll not abide a miscarriage of justice either."

He chose not to tell her about the argument he'd heard between the two in which Lord Grantham had attempted to put his foot down about not running a charity house and Lady Grantham had most assuredly put her foot down and informed him that the hiring, firing, and management of household staff was her domain, not his, and he could quietly contain himself to his library. He was also trying desperately to forget the additional comment Lady Grantham had made suggesting that Lord Grantham could also contain himself to his own bed if he continued to choose to interfere. There were some things that even a butler shouldn't know.

Elsie threw her hands in the air, "You have to be the single most exasperating man in England, Charles Carson, maybe even the world. Have you even given the slightest thought to the possibility that the divorce might not be granted? I might be forced to go back to the farm with Joe."

Charles put his hands soothingly on her shoulders, "Sometimes, I think that you think I'm an idiot. Yes, I have given thought to the fact that the divorce might not be granted. You'll never be alone with him again though. I have promised you that, and I will keep that promise. If for some reason the divorce isn't granted, we'll emigrate."

Her mouth dropped open. Good. He'd finally managed to surprise her so he continued, "When the trial date is set, I'll come here and buy tickets to the United States for just after the trial. If the divorce isn't granted, then we can be on the first available ship. Mrs. Levinson, Lady Grantham's mother, has indicated that having a genuine English butler would be a mark of distinction. I also have reason to believe that she would be particularly happy to employ me."

"The United States," she said flatly, "I thought your opinion was that too many Americans lived there."

"I did say that," he agreed with an inclination of his head, "but if you were there, and we could be together it would be worth it."

"Why would this Mrs. Levinson be particularly happy to employ you?" she asked suspiciously, "Has she offered you a position?"

"Not in so many words," he said, eyes shifting away from hers and rolling his shoulders, "but she has implied and then, she, um, well she patted me."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, "Where?"

"In the hall, by the door to the drawing room," he answered, smiling and hoping that she would drop the matter, which, of course, she would never do.

"Where on your person?"

"My, um, the backside of my person," he said cheeks fully flaming now.

"Your bum?" she asked incredulously, "she patted you on your bum, and you expect us to go work for her?"

"Now, dear, I'm sure she didn't mean anything. She had had several glasses of wine by that point," he tried to soothe her, "And that was years ago anyway. Regardless, the point is that I was given the impression that in the United States an English butler would have little difficulty in finding employment if he knew the right people."

"Humph," she snorted, "Anyone we work for will have to keep her hands off my man."

"Your man," he said, smiling at her again in satisfaction, "I rather like that."

She lifted her hand to his cheek, "I may never be able to call you my husband, but you will always be my man."

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, "Elsie, at times I think that you don't believe I take this situation seriously enough. I know the difficulties that we face, and I am doing everything in my power to work past them."

"Charles," she pressed her hand against his chest firmly, "I trust you. Surely you know that I do. If I didn't I would never have consented to be alone with you in the teashop for a moment, never mind what we've done now." Her cheeks tinted faintly when she alluded to their activities of last night and this morning.

He caught her hand, "Then trust me in this."

She squeezed his hand, "I do, but these are my problems as much or more than yours. Don't leave me in the dark."

"I have no intention of leaving you, in the dark or otherwise," he tightened his grip on her hand and met her eyes fiercely, "but that goes both ways. There'll be no more running away for you. You can't leave me. I can understand your wanting to be away from him, but in the future, we will face him together."

"No," she tightened her arm around his waist and pulled his hand to her lips, "I'll not run away again unless I take you with me. We will make our way through this."

He bent to kiss her, "That's my woman."

She laid her head against his chest, "And that's my man, my dear sweet man."

_**Reviews are welcome as always **_


	22. A Ride

_**Disclaimer: Still not owned by me. Darn it. **_

The train was not very crowded this early so Elsie didn't feel guilty about leaning against Charles's chest and drowsing for the two hours that it would take them to reach Ripon. They had the car to themselves after all, and the rocking motion of the train along with the steady rhythm of his heart were an irresistible lullaby.

She woke when he kissed her temple lightly and shook her gently, "We're about a quarter hour from Ripon, love."

She smiled up at him sleepily and started to sit up, but he kept his arm around her shoulders, "I didn't say you should go anywhere, just that you should wake up."

"Maybe you should make up your mind," she snuggled back against his chest and inhaled his scent, "I was having a lovely dream."

He chuckled and pulled her closer, taking her left hand in his, "Do you want to tell me this lovely dream?"

"It had to do with a stuffy butler who smells of books, peppermint, lavender, and lemon," she answered, shivering as he traced the scar on her wrist with the pad of his thumb.

"Stuffy?" he asked in mock offense, "I've always thought he was just a bit serious."

"Mmmhmm," she agreed, "Serious, funny, handsome, steadfast, loyal, gentle, and," she dropped her voice to a whisper, "my wonderful lover."

He laughed outright now, "I believe you have the wrong stuffy butler."

She sat up, "He is also stubborn, full of himself, cantankerous, set in his ways, a right pain in the arse at times," her voice was husky now, "but still my lover."

"Now that sounds like the right fellow," he nodded and leaned forward to kiss her lightly.

She laughed and resumed her position against his chest. His thumb resumed its exploration of her scar. They sat together quietly looking out the window for a few more moments.

Her eyes were still fixed on the passing landscape when she spoke, "It was a burn."

His thumb stopped moving, and his body grew still, almost as though he was holding his breath. She continued to speak, "It was the first time he hurt me. We'd only been married for a few months. I was in the kitchen working. He had been in a temper for a few days. Every month when it became obvious I wasn't going to have a child, he was angry, and every month he seemed angrier. I can't remember what set him off, but I argued back, probably for the first time. He smacked me across the mouth to get me to be quiet, and then he pushed me. My hand came down on the stove, and it burned me. He was very sorry and for weeks was as kind as could be. Until the next time."

His hand gripped hers tighter and drew her arm around his waist while his arm around her shoulders pulled her against his side. She didn't need him to speak, just to hold her and he did. He held her as though he was trying to shield her from the world and after a long silence spoke softly, "Elsie, you don't have to tell me about each one."

"I know that," she answered quietly, "But I wanted you to know how it started. You wondered how I could have married him. Well, I've wondered how I could have stayed married to him." She shook her head in disgust, "How could I have been so weak? As I've thought about it, I realized that it started so slowly that I could excuse his behavior. He was just jealous, nothing to worry about. I just needed to be more careful. He lost his temper. I shouldn't have made him angry. He pushed me. I shouldn't have argued back."

"Yes, I could see how…" he began but she cut him off angrily.

"It makes me so mad. Not at him, at me. How could I have been so stupid? I'm not an idiot Charles. I'm not weak, but he made me both. I should have left him that first time," she pulled away from him and sat up, brushing the tears from her eyes.

Charles grasped her arm to turn her back toward him, "And where would you have gone? It's not your fault the law was and is against you. And what if he'd gotten even angrier? Followed you? Even," he swallowed convulsively and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "killed you." Then his voice rose again fiercely, and for the first time she heard the tiniest bit of anger directed at her, "Don't you dare, ever, blame yourself for what he did to you."

She shook her head, "I was weak, and then I was afraid. I don't ever want to be that way again."

He took a deep breath and then very gently took her shoulders in his hands, "You are not a weak woman, Elsie. He is a very cruel man. You don't have to be afraid of him ever again. I have told you that I will not allow him to harm you, and I will not."

She took his hands in hers and pulled them from her shoulders, "You don't understand. I can't depend on you to always protect me."

"I beg your pardon," he was genuinely offended and hurt, "You can always depend on me."

She took a deep breath. She had no desire to hurt him, but he still didn't understand, "I know that I can always depend on you, _if you are there_." When he started to protest, she cut him off, "No, Charles, no matter what your intention, you can't dog my steps every moment of every day. That would be intolerable for both of us. What I am trying to say is that I'm not afraid of him anymore. He will not hurt me again because_ I_ won't let him hurt me. I am not weak, and it's you that has made me strong. Coming to Ripon and the teashop and meeting you and the way you treat me and your faith in me. All of that, it makes me strong."

Charles's lips had lifted into a smile, "Silly man. He thinks you're worth only fifty pounds. I make that much in one year. I could work a lifetime for you and it wouldn't be enough."

He pulled her close to kiss her one last time as the train pulled into the station, and she pressed against his sturdy chest, her rock, her foundation.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	23. A Shock

_**Thank all of you so much for reviewing. I am sorry to not reply individually, but I'm trying to concentrate on getting this done. I hope you continue to find this believable. Once again, I apologize for for my lack of inventiveness with names, but I'm assuming that a certain someone followed in his grandfather's footsteps.**_

**Ripon, 1913**

There was something disconcerting about walking with a woman's hand on his arm. Disconcerting, but wonderful. He was learning to shorten his steps so they could walk in an easy rhythm, and he found himself being distracted by the side of her breast occasionally brushing against his elbow. To focus his mind, he carefully watched the sidewalk ahead to avoid guiding her into any danger.

They were just going to drop off Mrs. Johnstone's valise and then catch the first bus to Downton. If they were fortunate, they might even make it there before Lord Grantham came down for breakfast. As they approached Mrs. Johnstone's home, Charles could see that something was wrong. There was someone on the front step. He narrowed his eyes and realized that the someone was a police officer. Slowing his steps, he drew in front of Elsie. A quick glance in her direction told him that she had come to the same conclusion. She was staring at him with wide eyes.

"Surely he wouldn't have," she began and then she started to push past him. He stepped quickly to the side to block her path.

"Stay with me. Whatever has happened has happened or the police wouldn't be there," he said, "And I'll not have you in danger."

She resisted him for just a moment and then nodded shortly while she waited impatiently for him to pick up the valises he'd dropped. Once he had them in his hands, she set off again at such a rapid pace that he had to struggle to keep up.

When they had reached the Johnstones' door, Elsie started past the officer, but he stopped her, "You can't go in there ma'am. There's official business."

Charles spoke to him over Elsie's shoulder, "Officer, those are our friends in there. Could you tell us what has happened?"

The young officer grimaced and looked around nervously. Elsie spoke next cajolingly, "Come lad, what if you came home from a journey to find the police at a friend's door?"

He looked both ways again and then leaned toward her conspiratorially, "You might want to pick your friends better ma'am. There's been murder."

The blood drained from Elsie's face and Charles put his hand comfortingly on her arm before speaking in his most commanding voice, "Lad, speak plainly. What's happened to Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone?"

"I really can't say, sir," the boy pulled himself up straight and looked at him haughtily.

Charles pulled himself up even straighter and prepared his dressing down voice, but before he could begin, the door opened to reveal a frazzled Mrs. Johnstone.

"Mrs. Burns," she exclaimed, "You shouldn't…"

A man in a dark suit who could only be a detective spoke over her shoulder, "Mrs. Burns is it? Just the woman we've wanted to see."

While Charles was glad to see Mrs. Johnstone safe, he didn't like the tone of the detective's voice at all. He moved to place himself between the detective and Elsie, ignoring her irritated glance.

She stepped away from him and asked, "And why would you want to see me?"

The detective paused to gather his thoughts, and Mrs. Johnstone blurted out, "It's Mr. Burns. He's been stabbed to death right here in Ripon. Last night."

When the detective scowled at her, Charles realized that she had told them much more than the detective had intended to reveal. Bless the woman and her big mouth.

Elsie was clearly shocked, "Joe? Last night?"

The detective turned to her with a sneer, "And just how many husbands do you have, Madam?"

Charles couldn't stand the implied insult, "Here now. You've no cause for that."

"I can't see that that's your business, Mr.-?" the detective fixed him with a stern gaze.

Charles refused to falter, "I am Charles Carson, Mrs. Burns's friend."

"A friend?" he asked, eyes flicking down to the bags in Charles's hands, "I see."

Charles's mouth set in a grim line. He'd known to expect looks like that but it was still galling to see this man take one look at them and assume all sorts of things, never mind that now at least some of them were true.

The detective stepped aside to allow them to enter, "Come in off the street. I have questions for both of you."

They entered the house slowly to see Mr. Johnstone standing with hands on hips, glowering at them. No doubt upset to have his day interrupted so thoroughly and so early. Charles glanced from him to Mrs. Johnstone who was also clearly upset. It pained him to have caused such distress to two people who'd only been friends to Elsie.

"Detective-," Charles began and the detective quickly supplied his name, "_Inspector_ Lewis."

"Inspector," Charles acknowledged, "Is there anywhere else you could ask your questions? I would hate to disrupt the Johnstones' day any further."

The man looked back at him with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow, "That's very considerate of you, Mr. Carson, but there's one person whose day has been permanently disrupted. I wish you'd shown some consideration to him and then I'd be enjoying a nice quiet breakfast with my wife."

That brought him up short. "Surely you don't think we've had anything to do with this."

"Well, I don't know, do I? That's what I'm trying to find out," he was definitely testy by now, "Here this fellow was in a strange town, knowing no one but yourselves. He turns up dead, and you've, um, been away." He glanced down significantly at the bags by the door.

Mrs. Johnstone jumped into the conversation at this point, trying to be helpful, "See here. You have no idea what that man had done to her. Why, when he was in the shop I had to use my pan on him to get him to leave her alone."

"You did?" Inspector Lewis turned back to her, "That's an interesting piece of information."

Mr. Johnstone stepped in front of his wife at this point and Charles could see that the situation was going to quickly get out of hand. "Inspector Lewis, Mrs. Burns and I will answer whatever questions you have for us, but surely it would be best to, um, well, have this conversation away from the children." He looked at him pleadingly, and the detective glanced at the children with a frown before running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"Very well," he said with a deep sigh, "You two can come with me to the station," then he turned back to Mrs. Johnstone, "but don't think I won't be back to question you."

Charles started to give Mrs. Johnstone the valise, but the inspector stopped him again. "No, keep that with you. I think we may have to look through your bags."

Mrs. Johnstone had stepped close enough to him, however, for him to whisper in her ear, "Mr. Crawley, if you please Madam."

She gave him a short nod before the inspector ushered them out the door. Charles tried to give Elsie his most reassuring smile despite his nearly overwhelming anxiety. He couldn't admit to being sorry that Joe Burns was dead, but he also couldn't help feeling that the man was going to cause them as much trouble with his death as he'd caused Elsie during his life.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	24. An Interview

_**Glad you're still enjoying the story and excused my blatant lack of imagination in using Robbie Lewis's grandfather as Inspector (yes, Laura Lewis is waiting impatiently at home with their breakfast). I hope that I've done Matthew Crawley justice here. **_

_**Disclaimer: Not owned or leased by me. I continue to cheerfully torture them for free.**_

Elsie glanced up to see a young man, too young in her estimation, with a shock of blond hair coming through the door. Her nerves were already on edge after being separated from Charles and questioned by the inspector despite the man's gentle manner toward her. Now they'd sent in someone else, and she really didn't think she could stand to go through the story again.

He stood for a moment studying her and then stepped toward her with a smile, "Mrs. Burns, I am Mr. Matthew Crawley. Mr. Carson has asked me to speak with you."

Her shoulders relaxed, and she released the breath she'd been holding with a sigh. This was the man that Charles had spoken to about their predicament.

"I see, Mr. Crawley," she nodded and asked the question that was foremost on her mind, "and how is Mr. Carson?"

A small smile tugged at his lips, "Worried about you but otherwise well."

"Thank you," she sighed in relief, "Perhaps you could reassure him I am well."

He pulled out the chair opposite her and looked to her for permission before sitting down. When she nodded he settled into the chair and said, "Serving as your messenger will have to wait until I have this story straight in my mind. I know you've been through this already, but could you review the events of yesterday one more time?"

When she hesitated, he added, "Please do remember that I am on your side."

She nodded and closed her eyes for a moment before beginning her story with Joe coming to the teashop and ending when Charles found her in the shipping office. As she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on Mr. Crawley who occasionally closed his eyes and nodded as he listened but otherwise gave no indication of what he was thinking.

When she finished, he said quietly, "I will need to know about the rest of the night, Mrs. Burns."

She faltered, and her eyes dropped to the table. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that he was on their side. Charles had taken him into his confidence and that should be enough.

While she was trying to gather her courage, he spoke again, kindly, "May I assume that you and Mr. Carson can testify to each others' whereabouts for the rest of the evening?"

She nodded, grateful for his intervention, and images flashed through her mind of Charles's solid bulk between her thighs and the feel of his hands on her hips, of tracing the pattern of the scar on his wrist and him twirling her hair around his finger while they talked through the night.

She shook her head to dispel those images. This was not the time to dwell on that. Practicality took over, "Mr. Crawley, I don't understand why they've kept us so long. Mr. Burns was killed last night and surely our train tickets alone prove that we weren't anywhere near Ripon."

Mr. Crawley leaned his head back and took a deep breath before standing and walking to the window. He turned back to her, "That is the problem, Mrs. Burns. The time of death isn't certain. He went back to his room in the early afternoon, probably needed to recover after Mrs. Johnstone brained him," he smiled faintly. "He wasn't found until this morning. The fact that both of you went to Blackpool is being looked on as evidence of flight."

She was shocked, "But that's ridiculous. Why would we come back? We could easily have found a ship to go somewhere if we were wishing to run away."

"There is that," he nodded and smiled at her reassuringly, "I believe that the Inspector is taking that into consideration. He seems like a good enough man. I'm sure that we'll be able to work this out given time."

Panic clenched in a tight fist around her heart. Charles must not be caught up in this. If he were tried for murder or worse found guilty… If anything happened to him, she didn't know what she would do.

She blurted out, "I did it. I went to his room to try to persuade him to leave us alone, and he attacked me. I was just defending myself. There was a knife and I stabbed him."

He fixed his gaze on her and asked one question, "Where?"

That took her by surprise but she supplied the first answer that came to mind, "In the chest, just here." And she motioned to a spot on the left side of her chest.

"No, Mrs. Burns," he said, "I meant where was his room." When he saw she had no answer, he continued, "You are quite in the clear madam. You were with Mrs. Johnstone from the time Mr. Burns left the teashop almost until your train departed. Mr. Carson however…"

"Mr. Carson would never have done this," she said with conviction but was dismayed to see Mr. Crawley shake his head.

"Are you quite sure? He seemed very angry when he left me at Mrs. Johnstone's home. He was determined to find you. If he happened upon someone, who knows? Added to that, there was a tall man with a dark overcoat and bowler seen going to Mr. Burns's room."

She shook her head vehemently, "He would never have done this, at least not in this way."

He cocked his head at her, "Now that's a curious way of putting it. What do you mean by that?"

Heaven help her over-sized mouth. She paused again but reminded herself that he was on their side, "I have no doubt that Mr. Carson could have killed Joe but only in my defense, and even then he would go immediately to the police. He wouldn't have run away to Blackpool, and I certainly don't think he could have," she stopped herself just short of saying too much, "that is, I don't believe we would have spent the night there if he had done that."

His smiled, "Thank you, Mrs. Burns. That is how I see the situation as well. However, the police seem to believe it possible that he happened upon Mr. Burns, followed him to his room, and then hurried off to Blackpool to find you. I suppose his staying with you could be seen as enjoying his last night of freedom, so to speak."

"That's utterly ridiculous!" she burst out and stood to her feet to begin pacing, "They don't know him at all if they think he would be capable of such a thing. You cannot allow them to accuse him. It will destroy him. His reputation means everything to him."

"Not quite everything, Mrs. Burns," he said still watching her quietly, "He seems quite willing to throw it cheerfully away where you are concerned."

"Which is exactly why I went to Blackpool," she said, teeth worrying her bottom lip now, "Foolish man. He should never have followed me. If he'd only let me go, then he wouldn't be here. He would still be the very proud butler of Downton Abbey."

Mr. Crawley seemed to have come to a decision while watching her, "He would also be very lonely, I believe. And he is still the butler of Downton Abbey. My cousin will stand by him. Lord Grantham is a good man and loyal to those who are loyal to him."

She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself, still frustrated with the situation.

"Now, I will try to have the two of you released," he said as he started toward the door, "I doubt the Inspector intends to charge either of you immediately, and you've answered all his questions." He paused before opening the door, "Mrs. Burns, I must confess to you that when Mr. Carson first came to me, I wondered if you might be taking advantage of him. That you might be using him to free yourself from an unwanted marriage or perhaps this was a role you played with many men. I can see now that is not the case, and you are the gem he believes you are."

With that comment, he walked out the door and left Elsie with all her worries.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	25. A Proposal

_**A lot of talking in this chapter, but hopefully it will explain some things. Inspector Lewis will return in future chapters.**_

_**Disclaimer: None of these characters are owned by me. I earn nothing from them and receive no compensation other than the pleasure of writing and the addiction of reviews.**_

Charles had his head leaned back against the seat and eyes closed. He was already exhausted, and the day was barely half over. They were seated in the car with only the chauffer for company, in the back seat over his own vehement protests, waiting for Mr. Crawley to clear up one or two things so that he could take them back to Downton. He opened one eye to look at Elsie and realized that at least some of his exhaustion stemmed from very little sleep the night before, but even if he'd known what they'd have to face today, he wouldn't have done anything differently. Last night had been the best of his life, to this point at least. He hoped now, if they could work through this new difficulty, that there would be many more nights like that one.

"Are you smiling?" Elsie hissed at him, "That doesn't seem at all appropriate."

He leaned closer to her so that he could speak just beside her ear, "It is probably not, but I was thinking about the best night of my life."

She gave his hand a squeeze and rested her head against his shoulder, "I hope that you mean last night because it certainly was for me. I just wish it hadn't been followed by today."

He returned the squeeze and reassured her, "I would have preferred today be different, but this is not all bad. It means that we can be married with little difficulty now."

"Little difficulty?" she asked incredulously, "You mean other than the police taking that as one more reason you or I would have killed him."

He scowled at her, "Elsie, they know we were together last night. I don't think our marrying will change their opinion on that score, and…" He stopped himself, not wanting to worry her any further.

"And?"

"And it will be the proper thing to do since I've besmirched your honor," he said lightly, hoping she'd accept his hurried explanation.

She narrowed her eyes at him, "That is not what you were going to say."

He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and looked straight into her eyebrows, "I have no idea what you mean."

"Charles, you're a horrid liar, one of your best qualities. What were you going to say?" she asked flatly.

He sighed, wishing again that he could be just a little dishonest with her, "And if the worst happens, it will be a comfort to me to know you'll inherit what little bit I've been able to save."

She tensed instantly and turned from him, "Don't even think that. I couldn't bear it if…"

"It won't," he said firmly and squeezed her hand again; "The man from the hotel didn't say it was me. He couldn't be sure that it wasn't me, but he wouldn't say that it was me either. That's something, and our coming back is in our favor. And the timing doesn't quite fit; even that Inspector Lewis said so. If they really believed it was me, they would have charged me."

She nodded and seemed the tiniest bit reassured, "Our stories matched. They wouldn't have if we were lying, and I'm convinced that's why they separated us."

"Yes, of course it was," he agreed, "Inspector Lewis doesn't seem to be anyone's fool. He surmised why you had left your marriage immediately." When she looked at him questioningly, Charles added, "He noticed your scar, I believe."

"That must have been why he was so solicitous of me," she said, shaking her head. "He was very accusing at first, wondering why I'd deserted my husband, but after he'd spoken with you for a little while, he said he could see why I sought comfort with another."

He looked at her gravely, "I didn't reveal any confidences. He did ask about the scar, but I merely told him that your husband had been harsh with you. He deduced the rest."

She met his eyes squarely and whispered fiercely, "Charles, love, if it keeps you from being accused of a murder you didn't commit, you can describe every inch of me to him in minute detail along with everything we did last night and this morning."

His cheeks flamed red as her words brought far too many images to mind; the softness of her skin, her lips moving against his, her hands roaming over his back, the taste of her on his tongue. He cleared his throat quickly and tried to change the subject, "If there was anyone else they could blame, I'm sure that they wouldn't even look twice at me."

"Possibly," she mused, "You have to admit that both of us have a strong motive. The way he treated me and you, my lover, determined to get revenge."

He nodded, glad that looking at this logically could distract both her and him, "And I suppose there is a financial incentive. After all, you will probably inherit the farm now."

"Oh no, that will go to Peter I'm sure," she said, still distracted.

"Peter?" He hadn't heard her mention him before.

"Joe's son, or rather his stepson from his first marriage," she said, "He's been in the army these past few years, but I'm sure he'll come back and take over the farm."

He looked at her speculatively, "He was married twice and still no children?"

She shook her head, "Of course I thought of that too. I even said as much to him…once."

"That man," Charles growled, "I almost wish I could have met him at least once."

She squeezed his hand tighter, "I, on the other hand, am glad that you did not, for just that reason."

A thought occurred to him, "Are you quite sure that Peter is still in the army?"

"No, of course not, I've not been in touch with him since before I left," she narrowed her eyes at him, "You don't think…?"

He inclined his head, "The farm would be a good inheritance, and if he was going to divorce you, Peter might have been afraid he would marry a younger woman."

"One who might give him an heir," Elsie finished his thought for him, "But Charles, Peter was a good lad. We never completely got along, too much resentment on his part, but I can't believe he would do this."

"Was Joe rough with him as well?" That would be one more possible motive.

Elsie shook her head, "He wasn't particularly close to him, but he never harmed him. From some things Peter said, I think his mother might not have been so fortunate."

Charles wondered if that might be the other motive. A boy growing up and seeing his step-father be cruel to not one but two women. Elsie was worrying her bottom lip again however, and he was certain that he knew the reason. Lifting his hand to her cheek, he brushed his thumb over her lip.

"I thought we agreed that you would stop that habit," he said softly

She scowled at him, "You agreed. I'll stop that habit when you stop being so bossy."

He smiled, "I suppose I should give your bottom lip up for lost then. What's worrying you, love?"

"My estranged husband is dead. My lover is all but excused of murder. His reputation is ruined because I led him astray. I now have no job, and I'm certain Downton will not want their butler's paramour as housekeeper. And to top it all off, a dear, sweet little lad may very well have killed his stepfather out of spite. This is a terrible mess, and I can't help feeling that I caused it all. If only I had just stayed with him," she finished with shining eyes.

"If only you had just stayed with him, you would at the least have more scars on your person and might very well be dead by now," he said fiercely. "Don't blame yourself for the misery he caused."

"Charles," she began, but he cut her off.

"Elsie, love, things might not work out perfectly, but we will find our way through this, and we will do it together," he said, "If you'll consent, we'll do it as husband and wife. I can speak to the vicar tomorrow."

She shook her head at him, "When you get a thought on your mind, you won't let it go will you? Will you always expect to have your own way?"

"Always and forever, my dear," he smiled and waited for her answer.

Her face softened into a relaxed smile, "Then always and forever it must be."

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	26. A Confrontation

_**Disclaimer: I do not own them and earn nothing from them. **_

It was a relatively short drive to Downton, just over a half hour. They made the ride most of the way in silence. Mr. Crawley was staring at the passing scenery deep in thought after asking a few questions to clarify things. Charles alternated between looking nervously out the window and resting his head against the seat back. He was exhausted, poor man, and more worried than he'd let on. She wished that she could take some of that worry away but short of growing several inches and becoming a man, she would never be a suspect.

The car pulled into the village and Charles sat up, looking around questioningly, "Are we not going to Downton? Where are you taking us?"

"To Crawley House," Mr. Crawley said, "Lord and Lady Grantham will meet us there. I hope they are the only ones," he added in a low voice.

"Why?" Charles asked, "That doesn't seem proper. If they wish to reprimand me surely I should go to them, not the other way around."

"Mr. Carson," the young lawyer explained patiently, "I apprised my cousins of yesterday's events last night. We agreed that it might be best to hold any further conferences here. It is much easier to control gossip in a house with only three servants than it is in a house with thirty."

Elsie nodded to herself. Perhaps this fellow wasn't too young after all. Charles started to protest again, but she caught his eye and shook her head quickly. He clamped his mouth shut but grimaced and glared at her.

They entered the house through the front door. Before Charles could even begin to protest, Mr. Crawley spoke, "You are clients now and as such you will enter through the front door. It would be silly for me to enter through the front while you come through the back."

She felt the tenseness in Charles's hand as he placed it on the small of her back to guide her through the door. If Mr. Crawley was setting out to make him ill at ease, he was doing an exceedingly good job of it. They were led into a small drawing room where there was an older woman, who Elsie could only assume was Mrs. Isobel Crawley, seated and speaking to Lady Grantham and a gentleman that she likewise assumed was Lord Grantham, standing by the fireplace.

Mr. Crawley made the introductions of her and beckoned them to sit down. Charles looked at him as though he'd grown two heads, but Elsie gratefully took the offer and sat down on one end of the settee. Charles positioned himself at her shoulder. She glanced up at him reassuringly and reminded herself that she was not a servant, not yet, and there was no reason that she shouldn't sit in their presence. Still, she couldn't make herself relax and so sat on the very edge of the seat with her hands gripping her bag tightly.

"Cars—," Lord Grantham started to speak, but his wife cut him off while keeping her eyes determinedly fixed upon Elsie's face.

"Mrs. Burns, are you quite well? We understood you to have had an unpleasant experience yesterday."

Elsie stared at her blankly for a moment before she remembered that Mr. Crawley knew all about Joe's visit to the tea shop yesterday and her flight.

"Yes, m 'lady, I am quite well," she said, "I was a bit shaken yesterday, and I'm afraid that I inconvenienced you as well. I am ashamed to say that I thought running away would be the best option, but Mr. Carson has convinced me otherwise."

Lord Grantham grunted, but his wife merely smiled, "So you will not run away again?"

"No," Elsie answered quietly, "I believe that it is safe to say that I will stay with Mr. Carson no matter the consequences."

"No matter the consequences?" Lord Grantham burst out, "So you will ruin his good name no matter what?"

She faltered, that was one of the things that she most feared. Charles put his hand on her shoulder to steady her and spoke quietly but clearly, "My good name is my own to ruin or not, sir."

Lord Grantham fixed him with a steady look, "Your name reflects on my house and so it is my concern."

"I understand that sir," Charles said and then he stood straighter and dropped his hands to his sides, "If you wish, you have my resignation."

"I do not wish," Lord Grantham growled, "What I wish is for my butler to behave himself."

Charles stiffened further. "If by behaving, you mean that I should no longer see Mrs. Burns then I am afraid that I cannot give you that promise."

Mr. Crawley jumped into the conversation at this point, "There are more pressing concerns at this time, Cousin Robert. There has been another incident."

Mrs. Crawley looked at Elsie with concern, "Did he attack you again?"

Elsie shook her head and twisted the handle of her handbag, "No, he was, that is," she stumbled over the words. If Lord Grantham was angry now then what would he say about his butler possibly facing a murder charge.

"He was found dead in his hotel room this morning, Mother," Mr. Crawley supplied.

"Convenient," Lord Grantham sniffed and turned back to the mantle.

Mr. Crawley spoke again, "Mr. Carson and Mrs. Burns were in Blackpool at the time and have excellent alibis. They are mostly in the clear."

Lady Grantham caught his phrasing, "Mostly?"

Charles spoke again, eyes fixed on Lord Grantham's back, "The timing is such that it would be just possible that I could have done it, and I do likely have the best motive."

Lord Grantham turned back to fix his eyes on Charles, "Did you?"

"No," Charles spoke simply and clearly, eyes locked with his employer's.

"Then that is that," he nodded, taking Charles's word as a matter of fact, "If you are charged, I am sure that Mr. Crawley can suggest the best solicitors and barristers if it should come to that. The question still remains what to do with you," he fixed his eyes on Elsie.

Charles's hand went back to her shoulder, but she spoke despite his restraint, "Lord Grantham, I do not believe that you need to do anything with me. I can understand if Lady Grantham does not wish to employ me, but I can assure you that I will find my own way."

Charles spoke before Lord Grantham had a chance, "We." Elsie looked up to see that his eyes were fixed on her face, "We have decided that we will find our way together from this point."

She looked up into his eyes and couldn't help the small smile which escaped, "Yes, we have."

Lord Grantham started to speak again, but Lady Grantham surprised them all by rising suddenly to her feet, "Mrs. Burns, Cousin Isobel, would you care for a walk? I believe there are things which need to be discussed among us women."

Once both Mrs. Crawley and Elsie were also on their feet, Lady Grantham turned back to her husband with a significant glance, "And, of course, that will leave you to discuss this like gentlemen." She placed significant emphasis on the last word.

Lord Grantham ducked his head and smiled tightly at his wife. Elsie turned back to Charles before following the two ladies through the door to the garden. What on earth were they in for now?

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	27. A Brandy

_**If anyone seems out of character in this chapter, I am putting it down to extreme stress (for them) and caffeine (for me).**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own them and never will unless wishing would make it so.**_

Charles watched until the door was closed quietly behind Elsie. Now the real dressing down would begin. He would not try to defend his own actions but nothing in him would allow an attack on Elsie. She didn't deserve that, and no matter the years of obedience that were drilled into him, he could not tolerate it. Turning back to face Lord Grantham, he was hit again with a wave of exhaustion and had to lock his knees to avoid swaying on his feet.

Lord Grantham smiled at him grimly, "You look horrible."

"I apologize, sir. It has been a trying-," Lord Grantham cut him off.

"Sit down."

"Sit down before you fall down," he repeated more sternly, then his voice softened, "That's an order, Carson."

Since Charles was feeling decidedly lightheaded, he made the quick calculation that lying flat on the floor would be somewhat less dignified than sitting on the settee, and so he obeyed.

Mr. Crawley looked at him with concern, "Have you had anything to eat today?"

"A bit of bread and butter early, sir," he answered as he thought back to what seemed a very long time ago, "We caught the milk train so that we could be back to Downton as soon as possible."

"Come along then. We'll see what we can find," Mr. Crawley waved them toward the kitchen, and Lord Grantham started in that direction

A wave of horror washed over Charles. His Lordship was going to the kitchen? That would never do. He rose, "Surely, sir, I could go. Mrs. Bird is sure to have…"

"Mrs. Bird is out," Mr. Crawley cut off his protest, "As is Mr. Molesley and Mother's maid. The better to avoid gossip."

"Then I'm certain that I could find something and regardless this should wait," he protested weakly but was now following them to the kitchen.

Lord Grantham turned back to him with a wry smile, "And us risk finding you face down in the ice box? I don't think so. This is just a foraging expedition. I did my fair share of them in the army. I doubt we'll come to any harm in the kitchen."

Charles was meekly quiet after that but fixed Lord Grantham with a steady look and made sure that he rummaged through the ice box. He found a bit of cold meat and milk while Mr. Crawley found some cheese and bread. Lord Grantham went into the larder over his by now half-hearted protests and came out with an armful of apples. By this time, Charles was ready to give up. He merely sliced cheese, meat and bread for sandwiches silently while Lord Grantham complained about the milk. Mr. Crawley then disappeared for a moment and returned with a decanter of brandy.

Charles scowled now and started to open his mouth, but his Lordship finally lost all patience, "For heaven's sake, Carson. You are going to eat, and you are going to have at least two fingers of that brandy. That is an order. Mr. Crawley and I are going to eat with you and I am going to have at least three fingers of that brandy. Stop complaining and don't have an apoplectic fit. You are not my butler for the moment. You are Mr. Crawley's client and that's the end of this discussion."

Charles reluctantly took the glass of brandy from Mr. Crawley and took a cautious sip before tilting his head back to down the rest. Orders were orders. Mr. Crawley barked out a laugh and Lord Grantham smiled wryly.

Charles lifted an eyebrow at them, "It has been a trying day sirs."

Mr. Crawley smiled and refilled his glass before picking up his own. Then he whispered into his glass almost too low for Charles to hear, "And I'm sure that you didn't get much rest last night."

Charles's cheeks flamed, and he would have chosen to ignore the comment except Lord Grantham added, "No doubt you and Mrs. Burns had a great deal to discuss."

Charles met his smirking gaze steadily, "Yes, sir, we spent most of the night talking." Charles wasn't entirely sure whether his whispering against Elsie's skin as he tried to determine just what would bring her the most pleasure would qualify as a 'discussion' but decided not to belabor the point. Then he shook his head slightly to dispel those thoughts. He needed food. If he was having those kinds of thoughts at a time like this, the brandy must have gone directly to his head.

He picked up one of the sandwiches and decided that if he was in for a penny then he was in for a pound. Without waiting on either of the gentlemen to eat, he took a large bite of the sandwich and nearly sighed in contentment. It was the best food that he'd had in months. He leaned against the counter and chewed silently while he wondered if he should take something out to Elsie. She had to be hungry as well. As he was having these thoughts, Mr. Crawley took out a tray and put a plate of bread, a tin of biscuits, and the milk on it. He glanced at Charles, "For the ladies. They will have to make do with milk."

He swallowed the bite in his mouth and said, "I should take that to them, sir. You can…"

"No, you will not," Lord Grantham interrupted, "You'll not escape that easily. Finish your sandwich so we can continue our conversation."

Charles nodded reluctantly and finished eating while he watched Mr. Crawley disappear out the door. He turned back to Lord Grantham waiting for him to speak. Waiting for what he was sure would come; his dismissal. The man had every right to do so. Butlers were not to have romantic entanglements. If they did have romantic entanglements, they should not involve themselves with married women. If they did involve themselves with married women, they should probably not be suspected of murdering the woman's husband.

Lord Grantham sighed, "Carson, there is only one thing I can truly criticize you for, and that was your attempt to bring Mrs. Burns into our household as housekeeper. Did you truly think that was a good idea?"

"It was not, sir," Charles agreed, "But I would never have suggested her if I didn't think she could do the job, and I was desperate."

"Desperate?" Lord Grantham asked, eyes fixed on the tumbler he was twirling in his hand.

Charles nodded, "She was worried that he might find her, and the events of yesterday prove she was right. I knew I couldn't protect her if she was in Ripon, but I thought I could keep her safe if…"

"If you brought the woman you were in love with to Downton," Lord Grantham finished for him.

Charles's jaw tightened, "Yes."

He let out a low laugh, "I never would have thought you had it in you Carson. I would have thought you past all that."

Charles bristled. He hadn't been past all that last night. Not once but three times, the brandy had him nearly ready to say so before his good sense stopped him. "A few months ago I would have thought so as well, but then I met her."

Lord Grantham glanced up at him, small smile still tugging at his lips, "I see." Then he straightened in his chair, wiped the smile from his face and asked, "Are you quite certain of this woman Carson? I mean, is it possible that she might be taking advantage of the situation, of you?"

Charles did stiffen now and kept the anger from his voice by clipping off the words sharply, "Quite certain sir."

He studied him for a moment before giving a short nod, "Very well. Then I suppose that all I can say is that I hope once you are married that your discussions will not exhaust you to the point that you are unable to carry out your duties."

Charles's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, but he only stuttered a little, "Of, of, of course not sir."

Any further discussion was cut off by Mr. Crawley returning with a grim expression on his face, "I think the two of you may be needed in the garden. Cousin Violet has arrived."

Charles groaned and Lord Grantham downed the rest of his brandy quickly before rising to his feet, "How on earth did she hear about this? Be glad you had that sandwich, old boy. You're going to need it." Then he glanced toward the still full glass at Charles's elbow, "Better finish that off as well."

Charles took his advice.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	28. A Position

_**The other side of the conversation.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own them and earn nothing from them.**_

Elsie blinked against the bright sunlight and hesitated as the two ladies started across the garden. She wasn't quite as exhausted as Charles, but she certainly wasn't up for a long walk either. Perhaps they wouldn't stay out long or at least find a bench. Gritting her teeth against the wave of lightheadedness that hit her, she started after them. She had gotten the distinct impression that the main purpose for their leaving the drawing room was so the men could have a private discussion. She was mulling over the conversation in her head when she realized that Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crawley were slowing their steps for her. She looked to Lady Grantham waiting for her to begin.

"I must apologize for my husband, Mrs. Burns," she said with a quiet smile, "He is very fond of Carson. When Carson's mother first came to Downton, Robert was only five and Mr. Carson, although he was not Mr. Carson then of course, was twelve. I have the distinct impression that he thought Carson most impressive because he could saddle a horse on his own and walk across a beam in the stables as fast as if he was on the ground. At least that is what Lord Grantham has told me. I have a difficult time picturing him in anything but stiff collar and tails."

Mrs. Crawley joined the conversation, "Carson could do that? I am impressed. Perhaps we should ask for a demonstration."

Elsie shuddered, remembering the scar on his arm, "I would prefer if you did not. He would likely feel obligated to provide one."

"In full livery," Lady Grantham added.

Mrs. Crawley smiled, "While carrying a tea tray."

Elsie relaxed and sighed, "Or two."

Both of the ladies laughed softly at the image, and then Mrs. Crawley gestured toward two benches, "Perhaps we should sit down. I'm sure the last two days have been trying for you."

Elsie had relaxed her guard a little too much because she agreed, "Yes and we had little sleep last night."

Her cheeks flamed but the ladies merely smiled and looked determinedly away while they arranged themselves on the benches, she and Mrs. Crawley on one while Lady Grantham took the other. When they had settled themselves she was shocked and embarrassed by Mrs. Crawley taking her hands and saying, "You poor dear. You must have been through so much. Sometimes the women who would come into my husband's clinic… It's terrible what men will do sometimes." Charles wasn't overly fond of this woman, and she could see why. Her forwardness would mortify him.

Elsie fought to keep her composure and extricated her hands as gently as she could. She could barely discuss this with Charles, let alone these two near strangers to her. While Lady Grantham knew that she had been separated from her husband and had no doubt guessed at the reason; that was altogether different than knowing all the particulars.

Lady Grantham, who was far more perceptive than Elsie had given her credit for, recognized her discomfort and said, "Well, that at least is behind you. I'm sure that Lord Grantham, Mr. Crawley, and Carson are discussing a way out of this other difficulty. The question remains as to what to do with you now."

"Lady Grantham," Elsie began, keeping her tone as even as possible, "I am not aware that you need to do anything with me. I understand that it would be impossible to have me as housekeeper, but I am sure that I can find some other position until…"

"Until you can have the banns read?" Lady Grantham asked, "You needn't look surprised, Mrs. Burns. While I may not have known Carson as long as my husband has, I do believe that I know his character. I'm sure that if things have gone so far for him to have been possibly named as your co-respondent, then he'll not want to waste any time now that you are free."

By now, Elsie wasn't surprised at Lady Grantham's keen perception. She nodded, "I will look for some suitable employment nearby."

"Forgive me for being so blunt, Mrs. Burns," Lady Grantham said, "but not everyone will be as understanding about your circumstances as we are. Finding employment may be more difficult than you think."

Elsie had thought of that, but it wouldn't be for long. She was still determined to persuade Charles from the date he had fixed in his mind, it was much too soon, but she also knew that he wouldn't tolerate a long engagement. In truth, she didn't want to wait too long either. They had both been lonely for far too many years; there was no need to waste more time.

"You'll work for me, of course," Mrs. Crawley broke in, "I don't need a housekeeper, but I do need a personal secretary. The correspondence and work from the hospital has become too much for me to do alone."

Elsie looked at her again in surprise. This was a most unusual woman. She wasn't altogether sure how she felt about working for her, and she was having some difficulty focusing her thoughts. After a long pause she said, "I have never been a secretary, Mrs. Crawley."

"There's nothing to it really," the older woman said brightly, "You are organized, of course, and if you have a fair hand, I'm sure that we'll get along famously."

Elsie hesitated, mulling it over in her mind, slower than she would normally be able to reason it out. She was reasonably certain that she could do the work and there would be one other benefit, which Mrs. Crawley was quick to remind her of.

"As long as Mr. Carson is under suspicion, it would probably be best that he come here often, perhaps even daily, to consult with my son."

She fought the urge to jump when the man in question spoke just behind her, "It probably would be better to discuss anything here as opposed to Downton, that's certain. Would you care for a bit of bread and butter Mrs. Burns? Mr. Carson was concerned that you might be hungry."

Taking a plate and glass of milk from him, she wondered just where Charles was. In ordinary circumstances, surely he would have been the one sent out with the food. No matter, she was famished and just about to take a bite when Lady Grantham let out a low hiss.

"What on earth is she doing here?"

Mrs. Crawley followed her gaze and said, "Well, I'm sure you can guess that I didn't invite her."

"I should go fetch Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson," Mr. Crawley said.

Lady Grantham looked at him with a tight smile, "Please do. We'll need reinforcements."

Elsie set her plate and glass beside her. Her heart was racing, and she was having the peculiar feeling of being very distant from everything. She certainly wouldn't be able to eat or drink. She couldn't imagine who would cause this much consternation for all three. Was it the Miss O'Brien that Charles despised? Was it the vicar's wife?

Lady Grantham looked to her, "Mrs. Burns, I am afraid that you are going to meet my mother-in-law rather sooner than I had hoped. I suppose we should all rise to greet the Dowager Countess."

They stood to their feet, and the distant feeling became much more pronounced along with a roaring in her ears. Lady Grantham turned to her one last time with a conspiratorial smile and asked, "I don't suppose you could faint, could you?"

Then she proceeded to do just that.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	29. An Appearance

_**My apologies for the delay. Busy days. **_

_**Disclaimer: Do I have to repeat myself again? See the previous 28 chapters.**_

The sandwich and brandy had revived him somewhat, so when he followed Lord Grantham out of the door, he smoothed back the curl on his forehead and assumed his straightest butler posture. His eyes scanned the garden for the women, Elsie in particular, but only saw Lady Grantham standing by a bench and looking down at the ground. That was odd. Then he realized that Mrs. Crawley was kneeling by a figure that could only be Elsie. His butler's posture dropped and the posture of a man terrified for the woman he held most dear in the world took over as he pushed past Lord Grantham to run toward the benches. He dropped to his knees beside her and was enormously relieved to see that her eyes were open, and she was smiling weakly.

"What's happened?" he asked Mrs. Crawley while he kept his eyes trained on Elsie's gray face, "Do we need to send for the doctor?"

"Charles, I just got dizzy. I'm fine. Calm down," Elsie said but closed her eyes and took a few quick breaths.

He lifted his eyebrows at her, "You certainly do not look fine, and I was asking the nurse."

Mrs. Crawley put her hand on his arm reassuringly, "I believe, Mr. Carson, that it is a combination of too little food and too much excitement. She merely fainted. I noticed that she looked pale. I should have insisted that she sit back down, but I was distracted." She glanced over her shoulder meaningfully.

The object of her distraction had now approached to within speaking distance, "That's certainly the most exciting welcome that I've ever received."

Charles didn't even look up. He kept his eyes on Elsie's face which was becoming progressively redder. He put a calming hand on her shoulder when she started to struggle to stand up and met her eyes with a firm look and a small shake of his head. She stopped struggling and relaxed back against his hand.

Lord Grantham bent to speak low beside his ear, "Perhaps you should take this opportunity for a retreat." Then he straightened and spoke in a clear voice, "Mother, I don't think you can take all the credit. She's had a trying day, but I'm sure that Carson will take good care of her."

Charles's eyes on Elsie's let him know that she had heard Lord Grantham as well. Her mouth set in a stubborn line, and he prepared himself for the argument that was coming.

"Just a moment and I'll be able to carry you in," he said brusquely ignoring the look in her eyes.

"You'll do no such thing," she hissed, but then her voice softened and she put her hand on his arm, "I thought we decided that there would be no more running."

Wretched woman for throwing his own words back at him. He blew a harsh breath out of his nose, tightened his jaw against the argument that sprang to his lips, and nodded shortly. Standing, he bent to offer her his hand and helped her to stand as steadily as possible to her feet. He stood just behind her shoulder, ready to catch her if she faltered. She turned to glare at him, but he merely tightened his jaw. He would give this protection whether she wanted it or not.

Lady Grantham the elder was looking from Elsie to him and then back again. She said almost under her breath, "I had wondered, but obviously it's true." Then she raised her voice and addressed him directly, "I presume this is your friend Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, m' lady, Mrs. Elsie Burns," he answered, shifting slightly so that his shoulder was nearly touching hers, again ignoring how she stiffened. Stubborn, foolish woman. Did she want to hit the ground again?

The Dowager Countess gaze met Elsie's and they both studied each other carefully. The Dowager Countess spoke, "You don't look at all well, dear. You should let Carson fetch you hot, sweet tea and lots of it. It is by far the best medicine for nearly everything."

Charles knew a dismissal when he heard it, but since it was exactly what he wanted, he didn't mind a bit. "Yes, m' lady. That sounds an excellent idea." Then he stepped back, bowed stiffly to Elsie and beckoned her ahead of him. As they started toward the house, he walked beside her with arms at his sides and hands clenched into fists. She walked deliberately but steadily, fingers occasionally brushing his sleeve.

Behind him he heard the Dowager Countess speaking, "I never would have thought him capable, but he's obviously besotted. Really Robert, how could you?"

Charles chose to close his ears to any further conversation and concentrate on getting Elsie inside. She had started to slow somewhat, and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye to see that her face was turning a lighter shade of gray. As soon as they rounded the edge of the house and he was reasonably certain they were out of sight, he turned and scooped her into his arms.

"Charles Carson, what are you doing?" she hissed, "Put me down this instant. I am perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet."

He snorted, "You're perfectly capable of fainting again," he emphasized the word with a lift of his brows. "You'll not stand on those two feet until you have some food in you, and I'm convinced you're well."

She clamped her mouth shut and glared at him dangerously. Someday he might be a bit frightened of that look, but not today. He strode into the kitchen and deposited her not too ungently into a chair. Turning to the stove, he had a kettle heating in a moment. He moved tightly and efficiently around the kitchen, finding a teapot and filling it with tea, then setting two cups and saucers at the ready. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he made her a sandwich and set it silently beside her on a plate. Then he wet the tea and turned back to the table.

Finally looking at her again, he saw that her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. "I'm sorry that I embarrassed you in front of the Dowager Countess."

"What?" he asked incredulously, "I have no idea what you mean."

"I mean that I'm sure that you would have preferred her to meet your future wife in different circumstances. I know how much you respect and admire her," she kept her eyes fixed just above his waist.

"Are you mad?" he asked, "I couldn't possibly care less how she met you. I came outside to see the person I hold most dear in the world lying flat on the ground, and then you wouldn't even allow me to give you the help you so obviously needed. Frustrating woman."

She lifted her eyes from his shirt to meet his gaze steadily. Her mouth set again into an even tighter line, and her voice grew dangerously quiet, "Charles, if I can walk under my own power, I will do it. I'll not appear weak, not here."

Appearances? She was worried about appearances? "Now you, you, just, just, you see here," he was spluttering and stuttering in his worried anger. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his jaw and started again, "Woman, I am to be your husband. You will allow me to take care of you to the best of my ability, no matter what anything appears to be."

She was looking daggers at him now, and he could see that she was about to jump out of her chair. He rose to his full height and stared at her but kept his hands clenched tightly behind his back. She settled herself into her seat. Raising her hands in the air in frustration, she said, "Heaven save me from over-bearing, over-confident, and over-protective English men."

Bending so that his nose was almost touching hers, he said, "And heaven save me from stubborn, bull-headed, ornery Scottish women."

Then she surprised him by taking his face in both her hands and meeting his lips with a fierce kiss. He returned the kiss fervently and sank to his knees in front of her. When she released his lips, he whispered, "Perhaps heaven shouldn't save me just yet."

She pressed her forehead to his, "Not just yet."

"You scared at least five years off my life," he said softly, breathing hard now and eyes closed.

She shook her head, "I certainly hope not, but Charles you must let me fend for myself a little."

"And you must let me care for you a little," he said, opening his eyes to meet her gaze. "You don't have to do everything alone."

Her mouth tightened into a thin line, but she kept her argument to herself. Her eyes softened, and she lifted her hand to smooth the curl on his forehead back. He rose reluctantly.

"Your tea will be strong enough to walk out of the spout if I don't pour it now."

She snorted, "Then it'll be a fair sight stronger than I feel at the moment."

He turned back to look at her seriously, "You are by far the strongest woman that I know."

_**Reviews are welcome as always. (There will be a slight delay for a few days because I'll be somewhat tech-free.)**_


	30. A Train

_**Sorry for the delay. I hope I've made up for it with an especially long chapter. Enjoy. (I hope.)**_

_**Disclaimer: Still don't own them.**_

Charles glared down the tracks then pulled out his watch to see that the train was not quite late; there were still three minutes until it was due. He turned on his heel and paced the twenty-two and one half steps to the end of the platform again, turned around sharply, and returned to his previous position to stare down the tracks. This day had been nerve-racking, more so when he received the telegram from Thomas telling him that they would be returning by this evening. They had planned on staying two days, something must have gone wrong, and he wouldn't be settled until he found out what. He wished that he'd insisted on accompanying her but could see her wisdom in refusing him. It probably wasn't entirely appropriate to have your current lover and future husband with you when you buried your previous one. If only she could have allowed someone else to do this duty, but she hadn't been sure of Peter and felt obligated to at least see the man safely buried. At least she'd consented to allow Mrs. Crawley and Thomas accompany her.

He sighed and pulled his watch from his pocket again. Now the train was three minutes late. He chewed at his bottom lip and wondered whether he should inquire of the station master again. Perhaps there had been an accident or some other delay. Then he saw the puff of steam that indicated the approaching train, and he released the breath he'd been holding. He waited as patiently as he could force himself for the extraordinarily long amount of time that it took for the train to come to a complete stop and for the conductor to allow his approach.

The door to a compartment opened, and Thomas exited first, followed by Mrs. Crawley who he helped out and then Elsie. Charles stepped forward to take her hand and steady her as she stepped off the train.

He first addressed Mrs. Crawley, "The car is waiting for you, Mrs. Crawley."

She turned to Elsie, "You are welcome to ride in the front, Mrs. Burns."

"No, ma'am," Elsie answered with a quick confirming look at him, "I would like to stretch my legs a little after the train."

Mrs. Crawley smiled, "Very well, I shall see you at home soon then. Please do let me know when you've returned." Then she turned to Charles, "I can see that you have things well in hand."

After Mrs. Crawley left, Charles turned to Thomas, "Thank you. I shall take over escorting Mrs. Burns now."

Thomas nodded briskly and gave a tight smile before starting to turn away. After a moment's hesitation, Charles said, "Thomas, I do appreciate the service you've done me."

He bowed slightly and glanced at Elsie, "Certainly, sir. Partial repayment, sir."

"As far as I'm concerned this was worth far more than a few bottles of wine," Charles answered seriously, "But you must still keep the rest of the bargain."

"Of course, sir," he replied and with a final bow, Thomas left them alone on the platform.

Charles drew the hand he had held the entire time through his elbow. He felt Elsie almost sag against him.

With concern, he drew her away from the train and to an empty corner of the platform, "The journey was that difficult?"

She shook her head and gave him a reassuring smile, "The journey wasn't difficult at all."

He cleared his throat, "Then you were able to…"

"Yes, we made all the arrangements. I refused to stay though," she shook her head grimly; "He'll be buried tomorrow."

"I see," Charles lifted his eyebrows, wondering what could have disturbed her so much and also what could have made her rush back. Elsie straightened and squared her shoulders, indicating that she was ready to start walking.

He chose the most isolated path back to Crawley house and walked slowly, taking care to shorten his stride. The sun had set, and it was chilly enough that he didn't want to linger for long. The full moon allowed him to watch his shoes with only occasional glances at her from the side of his eye. He waited patiently for her to tell him what was wrong.

She sighed, "He was there."

"Peter?"

"Yes," she nodded, "He's grown quite a bit since the last time I saw him. Almost as tall as you."

He looked at her sharply, "I see."

"In fact, in a coat and hat, I could see how he could almost be mistaken for you." She kept her eyes fixed forward.

He stopped and turned to her, "Then surely we need to see the Inspector right away."

She shook her head and started walking again, "It's not as simple as that."

His stride quickened. "Not simple?" he asked stiffly. "Forgive me, but I fail to see what is not simple about alerting the police to a man who may be guilty of murder."

"Boy," she answered, clipping the word off sharply.

"Beg pardon?" he asked, struggling to keep up with her fast pace.

She stopped under a tree and turned back to him, "Charles, he's naught but a boy who ran away to the army."

He chewed his lip and looked away from her for a long moment before turning back, "Perhaps you should explain completely."

"Charles, Peter's father died when he was only a wee babe, and his mother when he was seven," she spoke quietly, eyes trained on the horizon.

"I fail to see why that should affect what we should do now," he said, still stiff with disapproval.

"Joe was never kind to him," she said.

"Nor was he kind to you," he rejoined, fixing his eyes on her face.

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, "He thinks Joe might have…"

Charles leaned toward her. This was what had made her rush back. She stopped and took a deep breath, and he took her arm again, pulling her closer.

"I really can't blame him. The poor boy," she whispered. Charles kept silent. She would tell him in her own time and her own way, even though he already suspected the truth.

Finally the words came out in a rush, "He thinks Joe killed his mother."

Charles drew her into his arms and smoothed his hands over her back, making soothing noises. She had started to cry in hitching sobs.

"Elsie, love," he said, "that's a terrible thing but I can't find it completely shocking."

"For me," she choked out, "he thinks that Joe killed his mother so that he could marry me."

That did shock him. "And he blames you?"

"No," she shook her head, fighting back the tears, "he said he did when he was a lad, but he knows better now. But what if Joe did do it Charles? I don't know if I'll be able to live with myself if something happens to Peter too. It would be almost as if Joe killed both of them."

He let her calm down a little more before pulling away far enough to offer his handkerchief, "And you think we should allow this boy to get away with murder?"

"Not that," she said, shaking her head, "Not murder. Justice."

He growled and rolled his eyes, but she stopped him, "Hear me out, please. In your last interview with the Inspector, he gave every indication that you were no longer a suspect, didn't he?"

His mouth tightened into a thin line, but he reluctantly agreed, "He did."

"Then what harm could there be in waiting," she said, "If no one else is charged with the murder, then it will simply remain unsolved. Peter can sell the farm and then return to the army. You and I will be free. I can't see where anyone is harmed. And it's not as if we know anything. We just suspect."

Charles ground his teeth and ran his hand through his hair. She was right in a way. It did gall him to think that Joe would create yet another victim. He thought long and hard, going over every possible scenario in his mind. Finally he held up his finger, "I don't like it, but we'll wait. If anyone else is taken up for the murder…"

"Of course," she agreed, "That's just what I meant."

"And this was why you came home early?" he asked, wanting to get away from this distasteful subject.

She dried her eyes and tucked his handkerchief back into his coat pocket, "Not exactly."

"What else happened?" he narrowed his eyes at her; "It wasn't Thomas, was it?"

"No, no," she answered quickly, "Thomas was an excellent escort. He said he owed you a payment. What did he mean?"

"Don't try to change the subject," he admonished, "I'll be glad to tell you after you've told me why you came home early."

She took his arm and started to walk again, "I went back to that village, and no one would talk to me, even the vicar seemed ashamed."

"They thought you shouldn't have left?" he said, stiffening in anger.

She shook her head, "No, it wasn't that. I realized that they _knew_. All of those people knew what Joe was doing for all those years and no one did anything. Not even the vicar."

"I see," he said.

"Do you?" she asked sadly, "Would you Charles? Before you knew me, would you have done anything?"

He thought carefully. This was a serious question, and she deserved the most honest answer that he could give. "I don't know. I would like to think I would, but I don't know," he finally admitted quietly, "It pains me to admit it to you, but you deserve honesty if nothing else."

"Thank you for that," she said and pulled his arm tighter against her as a sign of her forgiveness.

"I couldn't stay," she continued, "I couldn't stay there another night and then commend his soul to heaven in the morning knowing what I do."

He doubted very much whether his sould was in heaven, but merely nodded and patted her hand, "It's good to have you home sooner, no matter the reason."

She looked at him in amusement, "How long had you been pestering the station master?"

"I didn't pester him at all," he answered defensively, "Just to know what time the train would arrive and then again to see if there had been any delays." He added under his breath, "Two or three times."

"How long?" the persistent woman asked, eyebrows lifted.

"A half-hour, or perhaps three quarters…," he began, rolling his shoulders, then sighed, "An hour. I had been there just over an hour."

She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, "Dear sweet man. Now you must tell me about Thomas. What is he paying you for?"

He paused, wondering how much to tell.

"One rainy evening last March, I believe you can guess which one," he smiled at her, "I saw Thomas putting empty wine bottles into the garbage. Wine bottles that had not been used by the family."

"He had stolen them?" she asked, "And you didn't dismiss him right away?"

They had reached Crawley house, and he stopped at the edge of the garden, covering her hand with his and tracing a pattern on her knuckles. "Someone was kind to me that day. I thought perhaps I should pass on the kindness."

She blushed, "I see."

"As you know, the butler has one bottle from every case. Butler's privileges, but I never drink it all. I told Thomas that I would repay what he'd taken from my own supply with one or two conditions."

"He owed you a substantial favor," she guessed and smiled.

"Which he has amply repaid by keeping you safe," he nodded. "And he is never to drink anything stronger than beer again," he finished.

"Why?" she asked, curiously.

He shook his head, "Some men shouldn't drink. They're hiding in it, using it to escape. It controls them. Thomas is that sort of man."

She nodded. There was movement in the front room and a flickering lamp. She should go in soon.

"I won't be able to come tomorrow," he said, "But will you allow me to escort you to church on Sunday?"

She looked at him in astonishment, "I thought that was a given, although I hope you've abandoned your plan."

"I didn't want to assume," he said, taking her cheek in his hand, "And, yes, I'll wait. I'll speak to the vicar next week. I think I'd rather like courting you properly for a while."

She leaned into his touch, "We'll have to be very proper. This village is too small for anything else."

Bending to kiss her lightly, he lost himself after just a moment and pulled her as close as he could. When he pulled back, breathless, he asked, "Is that proper enough?"

"Very," she whispered, "But I do think you need to speak to the vicar next week at the latest. I don't know that I can stand that much propriety for long."

He nodded and bent again to kiss her properly.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	31. An Announcement

**Sunday, Two Weeks later, November, 1913**__

_**Disclaimer: Not owned by me.**_

Elsie waited patiently for the knock she knew would come precisely at ten of nine. At quarter of nine she stood in anticipation, pinned her hat on, buttoned her coat, and drew on her gloves. Four minutes later, there was a soft rapping on the door which she opened mid-rap to see Charles standing with a warm smile on his lips. Lifting herself on her toes, she met those lips with a soft kiss that didn't linger and then shut the door behind her. Wouldn't do to be late.

This would be their second Sunday in Downton together, and it was the day. He was still slightly winded from rushing ahead of the group from the big house so that they could have this time alone. That was fine. They would walk slowly, enjoying each other's company. She took the arm he held out to her, loving the feel of his strong forearm under her hand. Pulling her close to his side, he bent so that he could speak low in her ear, "I take it that you are ready then."

"I am," she smiled, but kept her eyes forward, "Quite ready."

They walked silently toward the church, their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm, his stride slightly shorter than if he were walking alone and hers slightly longer. By now, they were comfortable walking together. They had better be. There would be a lifetime of walking together.

As they approached the church, she could see a small knot of men to one side of the door and a group of women to the other. Charles looked down at her with an unspoken question, but she gave a slight shake of her head, not today, not with the announcement to come. Her nerves wouldn't take it. They walked past, and he put his hand reassuringly on the small of her back to guide her though the door, nodding to the men and smiling at the women.

They made their way to the same pew they'd sat in the week before, and Elsie was conscious of the eyes on them, whispered conversations as they passed, and the small smiles given to her. There was no malice, however. These people only knew her as Mrs. Crawley's secretary and the woman who was walking out with the butler of Downton. There might be some discussion after about short courtships, but what of it? They were older. No need to waste any time.

Any gossip about her first marriage had been quashed by the deadly combination of Charles, Mrs. Smith who had taken the housekeeping position, and Thomas who she had found to be an excellent ally. He wasn't exactly a friend, but he had confided in her that Mr. Carson had been kind to him without expecting anything in return and somehow she thought that was a rare thing for this young man.

Before her nervousness could increase, the service began and soon they were caught up in the familiar pattern of rising and sitting, hymns and prayers. Their voices mingled and harmonized. His fingers brushed over her knuckles as they held the hymn book together, and the innocent lift of his eyebrows when she glanced up at him told her that it was deliberate. Did the man know what such a simple touch could do to her? Even here, in church for heaven's sake, she could imagine his fingers touching her everywhere but her hands. Her cheeks flamed, and she fixed her attention on the words again, "A mighty fortress is our God…" And her thoughts drifted to the strength and steadiness of the man beside her, a mighty fortress in his own right. Had God in His wisdom sent this man to her? That was a comforting thought considering that she has spent the past ten years wondering if she was even remembered. When she thought of how glad she was to have the solid, warm reminder of God's protection beside her, her voice lifted the final stanza to the heavens in praise.

The sermon began, taken from the Song of Songs. She tried to focus her attention on the vicar as he expounded on the way this book was an allegory of God's love for His people. Elsie glanced around at the people in the pews around her, wondering how many understood what he meant. Seeing that the Dowager Countess's head was bent and eyes closed, it was a good bet that she did not. Her eyes were drawn again to the page, "I am my beloved's and he is mine." There was no allegory here. This was a beautiful story of love. Appropriate for today, she thought.

Her cheeks warmed as she skimmed some of the other passages; "Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies." She glanced up to see whether Charles had noticed that passage as well. From his widened eyes and bright pink ears, she thought perhaps he had. Fixing her gaze back on the book in her lap, she wondered why on earth the sermon couldn't have been on Noah's ark or Sodom and Gomorrah or the loaves and fishes or really anything but these words which were stirring up far too many memories in her that were surely inappropriate for church. Then she saw another passage, "His legs are as pillars of marble." Her breaths started coming quicker as she thought that was certainly an apt description of Charles. Her fingers traced the words, and she heard him blow a sharp breath out. His hand dropped to the book, and he turned the pages firmly until he found the book of Ecclesiastes. Wise man. There was a time for everything and now was not the time for those thoughts.

The sermon finally ended and Elsie looked to see Lord Grantham nudge his mother awake. Charles sat up straighter in anticipation of the announcement to come, and Elsie held her breath waiting for the words. The vicar smiled benevolently in their direction, "I publish the banns of marriage of Charles Carson of this parish and Elsie Burns of Ripon. This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment…"

Those were the only words that she heard because her attention was focused on Charles. Eyes in the congregation were turned toward them, but she didn't mind at all. Charles's hand dropped to her lap and caught hers, giving it a quick squeeze. Then she realized by the shuffling sounds around her that it was over, and they should likely leave.

They made their way to the door amidst congratulations for Charles and best wishes for her. Charles left his hand on the small of her back the entire time, and every time she glanced up at him, he was beaming proudly.

She smiled herself. They were going to be happy. The past would remain in the past, and Joe's shadow wouldn't darken their future together. At least that is what she thought until she saw Inspector Lewis and his sergeant standing in the churchyard waiting for them.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	32. A Cottage

_**Sorry for the delay. I do have to eat which requires working at a paying job which unfortunately gets in the way of my fangirling.**_

_**Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me and I earn nothing from their use.**_

Charles put his arm behind Elsie's shoulders. There was really no other option in the crowded backseat of the Inspector's car. He didn't like the way she was crammed in between him and the sergeant. That fellow was far too tall for his tastes. And smiled too much. At Elsie. No one should smile that much. Especially not a handsome young man. And especially not at Elsie.

The inspector glanced at him in his rearview mirror. "You see, Mr. Carson, we're not here on official business at all. Just me and the missus," he indicated the petite blond woman beside him with a nod of his head, "going for a Sunday drive. Cozy-like."

The sergeant's mouth twisted into a smirk, "With your trusted sergeant along to keep you in line. Very cozy-like."

"That's enough of that James. I'll not listen to another argument all the way back to Ripon," the inspector's wife admonished. Laura was it? He supposed he should just stick with Mrs. Inspector.

"Ripon?" he asked in surprise, "You're taking us all the way to Ripon? Sir, I must protest. I have work…"

The inspector scowled and held up his hand to stop him, "Stop it, all of you. This is worse than having the kids along, all five of them. I have no intention of taking you all the way to Ripon."

Elsie's voice was strangely calm, "Then perhaps you should tell us where you are taking us Inspector."

"I'm only looking for a private place to talk. I suppose your estate is out?" His eyes met Charles's in the rearview mirror again.

Charles protested sharply, "It's hardly my estate and is not at my disposal, neither is my time my own Inspector."

"Mr. Carson," there was more than a hint of testiness in his voice, "I think you can feel assured that this is not what I wanted to be doing with my Sunday either."

Elsie put her hand on his knee and shook her head, speaking softly, "Charles, no." At the same time he heard Mrs. Inspector turn to her husband and admonish him gently, "Robbie."

Charles took a deep breath to calm his nerves and rubbed the top of his ear, "If you take the next turn, Inspector, there are some cottages."

Elsie gave him a questioning look, but he merely shook his head at her and scowled at the sergeant again. The man's knee was touching Elsie's. He was gratified to see him scrunch into the tiniest possible space for his long frame, fold his hands in his lap, and stare out the window. Good.

He looked down to see that Elsie was fighting back a smile and shaking her head in amusement; frustratingly lovely woman. She could exasperate him at times. He was only defending her honor. Turning to look out the other window, he wondered exactly what the Inspector wanted to say to them. Perhaps he could persuade him not to take him to jail until after he was able to marry Elsie.

By this time, they'd arrived at the row of cottages and the Inspector stopped the car. The sergeant exited first and offered Elsie his hand. A stern look from Charles ensured that he released it as soon as she was steady. Charles climbed out after and gestured toward the cottage on the end.

"If you'll follow me," he said over his shoulder, "It isn't much yet, but it will be private."

He opened the door and motioned first Elsie and Mrs. Inspector into the cottage. The men followed, and Charles apologized as he entered, "As I said, it's not much yet. I've done a little work here and there, but…"

The inspector snorted, "A very little."

Charles bristled, "I do have a job, sir, and it's only been a week."

Elsie looked at him with enough admiration to quell any frustration he had about the Inspector, however, and Mrs. Inspector shot her husband an exasperated look, "I think it's quite lovely Mr. Carson. I am sure that you and the future Mrs. Carson will have it in tip top shape in no time."

The cottage was dirty and could use a coat of paint, but the structure was sound. Charles had assured himself of that. There were a few empty crates and one not too sturdy looking stool. He took one of the crates and set it on end for Elsie. He glanced over to see that the Inspector did the same for his wife, but the man looked at him in astonishment when he put his handkerchief on top. After a moment, with a roll of his eyes and a grimace, he did the same.

Once Elsie was settled, Charles stood with his hands gripped firmly behind his back waiting for the grilling to begin.

Inspector Lewis stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and stared out the window for a moment before beginning. "Mr. Carson, I have a dilemma on my hands. We have a murder, a cold-blooded murder, which occurred in our city."

He glanced at Charles, but Charles kept his face carefully neutral, wanting to hear him out. He continued, "On investigation of this fellow, I have come to the conclusion that if anyone can be said to deserve cold-blooded murder, it was this fellow. That's not to say that I'm inclined to let anyone get away with murder, but, well, sometimes…"

The sergeant shifted uncomfortably, and the Inspector cleared his throat, "Be that as it may, I had ruled you out as a suspect and after speaking with you and others, including his stepson, I was inclined to think that this would simply be a murder we wouldn't solve."

Charles could almost feel Elsie tense when he mentioned Peter. He placed his hand reassuringly on her shoulder. "I see, Inspector, but something must have changed, or you wouldn't have felt the need for this cozy Sunday drive with your wife. Or at least if you did, I doubt you would have brought your sergeant along."

He acknowledged the miniscule joke with a distracted half smile, "Exactly, Mr. Carson. After another pause to look out the window, he grimaced, "We have an agitator." His mouth twisted around the word. "Determined to stir up trouble he is. And from out of town as well, which is nearly too much to bear."

"Tufton," Elsie said with annoyance.

All four turned to her with surprised expressions, but it was the sergeant who asked, "How did you know?"

Charles's mind was on another path, "Who is that?"

Elsie turned to him first, "Do you remember the day you were late and I was in the kitchen dealing with a situation?"

"That fellow?" he asked, anger rising, "The one who thought you could be bought?"

She nodded, "When Joe came into the shop, he said something about knowing that I only served paying customers. The way he phrased it reminded me of what Tufton said that day. I remember thinking that must have been the way he found me."

The Inspector had drawn nearer while she was speaking, "Now that is a bit of interesting information." He scratched the behind his right ear and fixed Elsie with a steady look, "Was there anything between you and this Tufton?"

Charles ground his teeth and took a step forward, but Elsie restrained him with a hand on his arm. She lifted her chin and looked in the Inspector's face, "I am not now nor have I ever been for sale, Inspector Lewis."

Charles glared at the Inspector and his sergeant. How dare the man imply such a thing?

Mrs. Inspector broke in to defuse the situation and spoke firmly but not unkindly directly to Elsie, "Some questions must be asked if my husband is to help you."

Elsie nodded once at the Inspector and then turned to his wife, polite but firm as well, "Mrs. Lewis, forgive me, but exactly why does your husband wish to help us?"

The Inspector took a step back then cleared his throat and started to speak, but his wife kept her gaze fixed on Elsie and spoke over his blustering, "Mr. Lewis isn't my first husband." Then to make herself completely clear, she added, "Your experience isn't unique."

Suddenly several things clicked into place for Charles, and he looked at the Inspector in a new light. The tips of the sergeant's ears were bright red now, and he seemed to be gazing at the floor looking for a convenient hole to fall through.

Charles decided to get away from this uncomfortable subject for all of them and asked, "Regardless of what this Tufton fellow says, we have impeccable alibis. We have the train tickets, were seen by several people at the shipping office, and then there's the…" He trailed off and colored, remembering that he'd rather not mention the single hotel room they'd shared in front of the Inspector's wife.

"Exactly, Mr. Carson," the Inspector said with a smug smile on his face, "Now you see our dilemma. We've let it be known that you've been investigated and cleared, but if this fellow keeps pushing then things might come out that you'd rather not be common knowledge."

Elsie let out a grunt of frustration, "I should have thrown that apple tart at him when I had the chance."

The Inspector, his wife and his sergeant all laughed in surprise, and Lewis nudged his wife on the shoulder, "See pet, just like you."

Charles smiled distractedly at Elsie and tapped his finger on his thigh, "Why is this fellow so insistent? Was he particularly close to Mr. Burns? I suppose Elsie and Mrs. Johnstone embarrassed him, but surely that alone wouldn't be enough to make him want revenge of this sort."

Lewis met his eyes, "We don't think he'd known Mr. Burns for long and just as a business associate. He'd bought some produce recently."

The sergeant joined the conversation, "He wouldn't be tall enough to be mistaken for Mr. Carson."

Then Mrs. Lewis and Elsie spoke at the same time, "But he could have a friend."

The Inspector gave a short nod at that, "That's right and something else for us to check into, but we should leave now if we're to rescue the neighbors from the kids."

He stepped forward to shake Charles's hand, "You needn't worry overmuch Mr. Carson, but I thought," a glance at his wife made him correct himself, "_we_ thought you should know what's being said. I must say that today's announcement isn't going to help in that regard."

Charles agreed, "Perhaps not, but it needed to be done. I do thank you for warning us, however."

Mrs. Lewis smiled at him and took Elsie's hand, "Trust us. I know what it's like, but trust my Robbie. He'll see this through."

They watched the trio leave and then wrapped his arm around Elsie's waist, "I'm rather glad we have that fellow on our side."

"And his wife," she agreed, leaning back against him. He responded by drawing her even closer.

They stood there enjoying the embrace for a time before he whispered against her brow, "I'm sorry about spoiling the surprise. I wanted to show you the cottage in a little different way."

He felt her smile and her hand covered his on her waist, "Were you going to drive me up in a chariot with a trumpet fanfare?"

After he'd hesitated for a moment too long, she turned in his arms to look at him with astonishment, "You never were!"

He laughed, "No, but that would have been an excellent thought. I had planned to bring you here day after tomorrow so that you could see what work I've done and decide on the rest."

"And what work have you done?" she asked. "Forgive me, Charles, but I have to agree with the Inspector. It looks as if precious little had been done."

He straightened to his full height and thrust his chin out. "I've ensured that the structure is sound and the stove, fireplace and water are all in working order." Then he blushed slightly before adding, "And I've cleaned the smaller room thoroughly."

"The smaller room?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously.

"The, um, the room that we will sleep in," he blushed furiously now, "I mean the private room. That is, the room with the bed in it."

A smile was teasing her lips, "I believe rooms with beds in them are commonly known as bedrooms."

"Yes, yes, of course they are," he said, finger rubbing the top of his ear now. "Of course, that is what they are called and so I was sorting out our bedroom."

"And why, dear sweet man, would you sort out the bedroom first of all?" she had a gleam in her eye now that was making him decidedly nervous.

"I didn't sort it out first," he defended himself weakly, "At least not the very first thing. I made sure the stove was put in good working order and the chimney was cleaned." He trailed off as he saw that she was finding none of this at all believable and entirely too amusing. Finally, he finished weakly, "It's the smaller of the rooms. It made the most sense to start with it."

"Very good sense, Charles," her voice was husky and rolled over the 'r' of his name. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine. He licked his suddenly dry lips but could only nod.

"Will you show me?" she asked and all blood ceased to flow to his brain and rushed to other, lower, insensible regions.

He nodded and backed further into the cottage toward the bedroom door. "We haven't long," he admonished. "We should just have a look and then you back to Crawley house and me back to Downton."

She smiled. When had she started looking positively predatory? "We could always say the Inspector detained us," she suggested.

That was an excellent idea. He grasped her hand and started more purposefully toward the bedroom door. They would take all the time they needed. She needed to inspect it thoroughly after all. Every nook and cranny.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	33. An Inspection

**Sorry for the delay, but smut is hard to write. (pun not exactly intended) **

**Disclaimer: Neither owned nor leased by me.**

Flowers. She hadn't known what to expect from Charles decorating their bedroom, but it wasn't the explosion of colors that she saw. Pink curtains with tiny yellow roses at the window, a lacy covering for the dresser, and a quilt that looked like a garden of flowers in every feminine color she could imagine, shades of pink, purple, blue, and yellow covering their bed.

She walked to the bed and ran her hand over the soft quilt. On closer inspection, it was made of hundreds of tiny scraps of fabric sewn together, grouped by color but without any real pattern. It must have taken months to sew. Charles had remained in the doorway, "I hope you don't mind. It was my mother's. I'm afraid that I'm not sure if she made it or my grandmother."

"It's lovely," she said, turning to him with a smile to ease the anxiety she heard in his voice, "I just expected something more," she hesitated, searching for the right word, "serviceable."

"A scratchy gray blanket and no curtains for the windows?" he teased, stepping to her side.

She inclined her head in agreement, but her breath caught in her throat at the warm nearness of him.

He took her hand and leaned toward her, nuzzling her jaw, "Anna, I mean Mrs. Smith, did suggest the curtains and the, um, thing on the dresser. She thought you would like them. For my part, I can certainly see the wisdom in curtains for the bedroom." He bent to kiss her, and she put her hands on his shoulders, enjoying the way his lips moved over hers while his hands roamed down her back.

"Will we only need them in the bedroom?" she asked when he moved from her lips to seek that perfect spot behind her ear.

He pulled back in surprise to look in her eyes, "I suppose we should have them in the kitchen as well."

"Thick ones," she sighed and placed a kiss on the underside of his jaw to hide her embarrassment at what she was suggesting.

His face relaxed into a smile, and he met her lips hungrily again. She could gladly get lost in this man's kisses for ages. The way his tongue explored her mouth and the way his lips brushed then caught hers and the way the stubble of his cheek felt rough against her skin. After what seemed like a very long and a very short time, she pulled away again to calm herself and catch her breath.

"I should inspect a little more, I suppose," she said and he cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, you'll see that we have a dresser here," he said, "Very sturdy. Um, I always put my things on the right so I thought this would be where your brushes and things would sit." He indicated the left side of the dresser, and she could picture his brush and hair pomade on one side while her combs and face cream would be on the other.

She nodded, "Very nice, and is the other furniture sturdy?"

The tips of his ears turned a bright pink, but his smile deepened, "We should probably inspect it as well. Wouldn't want anything to break, would we?"

He led her toward the bed and she ran her hand over the quilt, again admiring the long hours of careful work that had been put into it, "So soft."

"That will never do," he pretended to frown deeply, "I prefer firm, hard even."

She blushed and looked down, knowing that he was teasing, but spoke softly, "I must say that I prefer firm as well, but for the surface, soft is best."

He dipped his head to meet her lips, "I hope you won't be disappointed."

She pulled back after a moment and said, "Never." Then she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, "Charles, I love this room…"

He frowned in earnest this time, "But?"

She glanced at the lace, the flowers on the curtains and the feminine quilt, "Won't it be too womanly for you to share?"

He traced a pattern thoughtfully around the small pieces of fabric that made up the quilt and then sat down, drawing her to stand between his knees, "Elsie, love, I've had my fill of hard corners, dark colors, and scratchy gray blankets. I will share my bedroom and my bed with a woman now. I want everything that I see in this room to remind me of that fact."

"And will the woman you share it with not remind you of that fact?" she teased before leaning into his embrace, kissing him, exploring his mouth with her tongue, catching his lips with hers, remembering their one night together and all the things he seemed to enjoy most. She unraveled his tie easily but struggled to unbutton his collar and finally groaned in frustration.

He caught her hands with his, "There's no need to rush. We were detained by the Inspector, remember?"

Frustrating man. There was every need to rush. She wanted his skin touching hers, his weight between her thighs, and the feeling of completeness she'd had when they were joined. She needed all of that. She needed him. Now. Not knowing how to put those feelings into words, she leaned toward him again and pressed her lips hard against his, tongue invading his mouth this time. Her hands went to his shoulders, and she gripped them tightly. She didn't know if he understood what she wanted or was only responding to her eagerness, but he grunted and tightened his hold on her waist, leaning toward her and pressing closer.

She pressed even tighter against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. His hands moved down to cup her bottom, and as he pulled her against him, she could feel his hard need for her. Then next thing she knew his hand was at the neck of her dress, working buttons loose. As her skin was exposed to the cool air and his moist kisses, she shivered. He lifted his head to look at her with hooded eyes and she smiled, "Charles, I think I need to inspect the bed closer, and it would no doubt be a little warmer as well."

He hummed in agreement and released his hold on her bottom with only a trace of reluctance. Standing, he made quick work of removing his collar and waistcoat, and after a moment's hesitation of watching his hands on his shirt, she began to work loose the fastenings of her own clothes. His eyes widened with such admiration when she released the hooks on her corset that she slowed her movements and appreciated his low growl. Her cheeks were warm with equal parts of embarrassment and desire.

She paused after letting her corset drop to the ground to watch as he drew his undershirt over his head and was reminded of seeing him in her kitchen like this, wet and shivering. Her cheeks warmed again, and she could feel moisture gather between her thighs. A soft moan escaped her lips, and he looked up at her sharply. Whatever he saw there brought a hungry look to his eyes.

He took a step toward her and her hands were on his chest, roaming, touching, feeling every inch of his exposed skin. This was part of what she had wanted, to feel his warmth, but it was not nearly enough. Her hands dropped to the waistband of his trousers, while his hands pulled her shift up and over her head. He grasped the ribbon at the back of her knickers and started to give a sharp tug when he pulled back in surprise, "These have a slit in the middle?"

She laughed at the shock in his voice, "Of course, they all do."

"It would probably be better if I never knew that," he groaned, "Too distracting." As he said these last words however, he tugged the ribbon loose and worked her knickers down her hips. She stood for a moment while he admired her, fighting the urge to cover herself. He had seen her before, after all, but not standing and not with such frank lust in his eyes. It seemed an eternity but took only a moment before he noticed her goose bumps. He lifted the quilt and urged her into the bed while he made quick work of removing the last of his clothes.

It was her turn to admire him now, the strong pillars of his legs, his broad chest, the hard member, firm and ready for her. When he climbed into bed, she tentatively reached out her hand and traced her fingers over that part of him. She had never willingly reached out to Joe in this way, but with Charles, she couldn't touch him enough. She wanted to explore every inch of him, to know him completely. His breathing was ragged as she traced his length, finally gripping him gently but firmly in her hand and stroking him hesitantly at first and then with more confidence when he pushed his hips toward her.

His voice was strangled, "Elsie, that feels, oh my, that feels so good." She explored the tip with her thumb, and he moaned out her name. That gave him so much pleasure that she traced a circle around the tip again, watching the spasms of pleasure on his face. "Oh my good heavenly…, Elsie, love, if you want any pleasure from this, I need you to stop."

She was tempted, tempted by her power over him, tempted to make him lose control completely, but she wanted, had wanted every day since the night they'd spent together, to be joined with him again. She wanted to feel him inside her. Her hand stilled, and she released her hold on him. He sighed, but she wasn't sure if it was from disappointment or relief.

In an instant, he was leaning over her, and just as he had that night, he kissed the scar on her breast, her thigh, her wrist and then along her jaw. As he trailed kisses back to the spot behind her ear, his hand explored the slit between her thighs. When he felt that she was already ready for him, she felt him position the tip of his member at her entrance. She spread her legs wider, and when he slid into her, she cried out his name. Complete. She felt complete and whole and full and oh so very good, and then he started to move. Sliding in and out, his hands on her bottom and lips on her neck, she felt the knot in her belly start to tighten. She started to move her hips trying to match his rhythm, seeking that same feeling that she'd had their first night. The feeling of arriving, of climbing higher and higher and finally, when his thrusts became erratic and harder and his lips sucked at her collarbone, she fell over the edge, lights exploding behind her eyes and a roaring in her ears.

As her breathing came slowly back under control, she realized that he'd stopped his movements and had collapsed at her side. His hand was tracing a lazy pattern on her arm.

He smiled at her, "This bed will do?"

A breathless laugh escaped, "Definitely firm enough where it should be."

"And soft where it should be," he agreed.

"I hope you'll remember now that you've a woman who'll share your bed," she said, curling into him.

He pulled her head to his chest and began to trace circles on her back with his thumb, "As long as you remember there'll be a man who'll share yours."

"Always, love, always," she sighed.

As she dosed off she heard him repeat her words, "Always."

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_**.**


	34. A Dinner

_**Sorry for the delay, but life is getting busier.**_

_**Disclaimer: See previous 33 chapters.**_

On the whole, he thought he would rather be interrogated by Inspector Lewis. This entire conversation was not only uncomfortable, it was bordering on the ridiculous. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves before speaking, "Mrs. Patmore, I am quite sure that Mrs. Johnstone meant no insult…"

He was cut off once again by the angry cook, "No insult? And just how am I to take it. That woman bringing an apple tart into my kitchen as if I couldn't take care of this meal properly. My tarts have suited you for over twenty years now. I'd like to know why Mrs. High and Mighty thinks that she needs to…"

At this point, his frustration got the better of him, "She didn't _need_ to do anything. She _wanted_ to do this as a kindness for my fiancée. Surely you can understand that Mrs. Patmore." He finished in a cajoling voice. His eye caught movement at the door of his pantry, and he realized Elsie must have heard his raised voice. He frowned and waved her back into the room surreptitiously with a flutter of his fingers. She stood still and glared at him for a moment. Sending her a silent plea with his eyes, he was glad when she turned back into the room. There was no need for this to turn into a full blown incident; no more than it already was at least.

Turning back to Mrs. Patmore, he noted her scowling face and the quick, angry movements she was making around her kitchen. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, then twenty, and finally to twenty-five before speaking. There would be no arguments tonight if he could do anything in his power to help it. This was his final night as a single man and Mrs. Smith had kindly arranged this dinner. Elsie and Mrs. Johnstone would join himself and the rest of the senior staff for a meal in the housekeeper's sitting room. It was a proper send off, no ribald teasing from the younger members of staff. No pints at the pub. Just a nice quiet dinner and then he would escort Elsie and Mrs. Johnstone back to Crawley house, a gentle kiss at the door, if he was lucky more than one kiss, and a promise to meet tomorrow to say their vows. At least that had been his plan until Mrs. Johnstone arrived bearing one of her apple tarts. Now, Mrs. Patmore was in what could only properly be called 'a state', and Charles felt as though he'd been unfaithful. He tried to push his embarrassment down and focused on soothing the cook's feelings.

"Mrs. Patmore, Beryl," he said quietly, "You are one of my oldest and dearest friends."

Her back was still turned to him, but her shoulders relaxed slightly so he continued, "I would even go so far as to say that I consider you to be like a sister. Mrs. Johnstone was just trying to be kind. You see Elsie was always very careful to save me a piece of her apple tart…"

The shoulders stiffened, and she turned back to him in surprise, "You've been eating her apple tart all this time? Is it so much better than mine then?"

He nearly groaned at his mistake and lowered his voice, saying the first thing that came to mind, "Mrs. Patmore, when I met Elsie I very much desired, that is, I didn't return just so that I could have apple tart."

She smirked now, and he knew he'd just opened himself to endless teasing. It would be worth it for a peaceful dinner, however.

"Oh, so that's the way of it, then," she said, matching the level of her voice to his, "It was just that you needed an excuse to go back."

He smiled and rose to his full height, rocking forward on his toes and lifting his eyebrows at her, "Exactly. Now, if you could just be quiet about it. I wouldn't want to hurt Mrs. Johnstone's sensibilities. She's been very kind to Elsie."

"Of course not," Mrs. Patmore said, conspiratorially, "I wouldn't want to cause you any trouble with the future Mrs. Carson. Now tell me, what is it? Is her crust too thick? Or overdone?"

Charles panicked. He hadn't thought of that. What could be wrong with it? "Um, no, it's just not quite like yours"

She nodded decisively, "Probably too much spice. It's always easy to go wrong with the nutmeg. Too much and…" She scrunched up her face and shook her head. Charles nodded gratefully in response. It certainly could be that, although he actually didn't think Mrs. Johnstone's tart was that bad. He had no idea, but at least the crisis was averted. He bowed and started toward his pantry, hoping that Elsie hadn't heard the whole exchange.

When he entered the pantry, he saw that Mrs. Smith and Mr. Bates were entertaining Mrs. Johnstone and had apparently just invited her to Mrs. Smith's sitting room. He noticed Mr. Bates' gaze drift down when Mrs. Smith walked through the door and noted absent-mindedly that he should probably talk to him about that. Then he turned back to Elsie, and all thoughts of propriety fled. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she was watching him with an odd look. He groaned inwardly but decided to proceed as if nothing had happened.

"Should we go in to dinner?"

She nodded stiffly and took his arm. This was going to be a very long night. They walked into Mrs. Smith's sitting room, and the dinner began with two of the younger hall boys serving. They needed to begin somewhere if they wanted to be footmen someday. Ordinarily, Charles would have spent the bulk of the dinner trying to direct their service with subtle nods of his head and not so subtle glares, but tonight his attention was focused on Elsie. She ate stiffly and was much quieter than usual, occasionally dismembering Mrs. Patmore with her eyes. Thankfully the cook didn't seem to notice and by the time they were half way through the first course, she was apparently the best of friends with Mrs. Johnstone; out of pity for the woman's poor tart making skills, no doubt.

Before the second course was served, Charles could take it no longer. He dropped his napkin to the table and said, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Smith. I was so distracted today that I forgot to fetch a bottle of wine for the pudding. If you'll excuse me for a moment," Then he turned to Elsie and was already pulling her chair out as he spoke, "You've not seen the wine cellars yet, have you dear? Come with me. You should know where I spend so much time."

His tone brooked no argument, and he grasped her elbow and was propelling her toward the cellar door before she had a chance to say anything.

She stopped and tried to pull her arm away from him once they were in the hall, "Where are you taking me?"

"To the wine cellar," he hissed, glancing back at the door and then returning his gaze to her wide eyes. He released her arm immediately but was glad to see that she didn't move away, "Elsie, love, I have no intention of doing anything other than talk. I just want to do so without everyone in Yorkshire knowing more of our business than they already do."

She nodded and followed him to the cellar with no further protest. When he had a lamp lighted, he turned to her, "Out with it."

"Out with what?" she asked in a dangerously quiet voice and her arms were now crossed over her ample chest.

He sighed, "This is the night before the happiest day of my life. I would like to know why you are angry with me."

She arched an eyebrow at him, "If you can't figure that out on your own, I may have more than one reason to be angry with you."

Gritting his teeth, he asked, "Very well, is it to do with Mrs. Patmore?"

Her mouth tightened and she nodded, "It would seem that I interrupted something."

"You didn't interrupt anything," he folded his hands in front of him; "We were merely discussing the pudding."

"I didn't mean just now," she said, "I meant months ago. Did meeting me interrupt something between you and the cook?"

He looked at her in utter confusion, "Between me and the cook? What on earth would be between me and…? "It dawned on him, "You're jealous! Of Mrs. Patmore?"

Her frown deepened, and her arms tightened.

He ran his hand through his hair and then reached forward to put his hands on her shoulders, "Elsie, there is not now, nor has there ever been, nor will there ever be anything between myself and Mrs. Patmore except friendship and mutual respect. We work in the same home. That is all."

"Then why were you standing so closely?" she asked, still not completely convinced.

He let out a short laugh, "She was jealous."

"Of me," she nodded, "See that shows…"

"No, not of you, of Mrs. Johnstone or rather Mrs. Johnstone's apple tart," he said, grinning now in relief, "She seemed to feel that I had been cheating on her cooking by eating Mrs. Johnstone's desserts."

She shook her head at him in confusion but thankfully, the tenseness eased out of her shoulders, "You still aren't making any sense."

He pulled her into his arms and spoke low in her ear, "She was offended that Mrs. Johnstone brought an apple tart. I had to explain to Mrs. Patmore that it wasn't the tart which kept me returning to the tea shop."

She turned her head toward him and spoke against his cheek, "And why did you return?"

"I was entranced by the detective who ran the shop," he said, catching her lips for a gentle kiss.

"Detective?" she asked, returning the kiss and rubbing her hands over his back.

He nodded, kissing her again, and in danger of forgetting that people were waiting for them in the housekeeper's sitting room, "Who could tell what I was and where, and who offered me the use of an orphan umbrella."

She smiled and pulled back slightly, "I've never been more grateful for rain."

"Nor I," he agreed and leaned back so that he could gaze into her eyes, "I suppose we have to return to the meal now don't we?"

"If we don't they'll likely come looking for us," she smiled but pressed her head to his chest and tightened her hold on him.

Pressing a kiss to her temple, he said, "I suppose it would scar poor Mr. Bates for life to find me with my trousers around my ankles and you pressed to the wall, wouldn't it?"

"Charles Carson," she said in a mildly shocked voice, "your imagination." Then she caught her lower lip between her teeth and speculated, "I suppose we couldn't be quick enough, could we?"

He released her then and turned her toward the stairs. They would never return if they kept talking. As it was, he was cataloguing the silver in his mind to calm himself. The evening was salvaged. Elsie would be his wife in less than a day. That would have to be enough to satisfy him for now.

They returned to Mrs. Smith's sitting room to see that the meal had gone along quite well without them. Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Johnstone were thick as thieves. Mr. Bates was leaning toward Mrs. Smith and speaking in low tones. He held Elsie's chair for her to sit and settled down to enjoy the rest of the evening to the fullest.

It was unfortunately Mrs. Johnstone who noticed first, and she nudged Mrs. Patmore who narrowed her eyes at him, "Where's the wine?"

"The wine?" he asked and noticed Elsie's face flame from the corner of his eye.

Mrs. Smith was smiling knowingly, "I thought you were going to fetch a bottle of wine for the pudding."

"Oh yes, well," he stammered, "I just, that is…" He turned toward Elsie who was to be his helpmate. She was being of no use whatsoever in this situation.

Mr. Bates smiled at him over his glass, "That's quite all right Mr. Carson. Even the best of us may be distracted at times."

Mrs. Johnstone didn't show quite the same tact, "And I'm sure you both enjoyed the distracting."

Mrs. Patmore laughed and Charles decided that in the future he would just remain in the cellar. With Elsie, of course.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	35. A Drink

_**Not quite wedding time yet. **_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own them, but at this point I believe I at least deserve joint custody.**_

Elsie took the glass from Charles with pleasure and turned her attention from the fire to him. He pulled the other chair closer to hers and then sank down heavily onto it. Nodding toward her, he saluted her with his glass and took a sip of the amber liquid. She sipped her own and enjoyed the warmth that spread down into her chest.

He smiled, "They are still talking and going over recipes. I heard Mrs. Patmore say something about rhubarb crumble as I passed by."

"So we have a bit of time then," she said, taking another sip from her glass.

He gave her a severe look, "Only a bit. I have an early appointment tomorrow that I don't intend to miss."

"Good," she shifted her glass to her left hand and stretched her right one toward his. He made the opposite shift and entwined the fingers of his left hand with hers, lifting her hand to his lips to brush a kiss across her knuckles.

"This is what I'm looking forward to most," he said, turning her hand over to press a kiss to her palm.

She agreed but couldn't resist teasing, "Drinking brandy while we wait for two cooks to quit gossiping?"

He lowered his eyebrows at her and she had to admit to being impressed with the severity of his look, "Sitting with you before the fire at the end of the day, although I must say that I'll prefer the settee in our cottage to these chairs."

"They do rather interfere, don't they?" she asked, looking down at the chair arms that were keeping them apart.

His smile and voice turned seductive, "You could come sit in my lap, future wife."

Oh goodness, she was going to have a difficult time saying no to those eyes and that tone. She should probably steel herself now, "I suppose I could, future husband, if I want to shock your dear friend, Mrs. Patmore, when she comes in to see your hand on my bum and mine down the front of your trousers."

He groaned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "That, future wife, was unfair. I'll get little enough sleep tonight as it is."

"And why will that be?" she lowered her voice and looked at him through her eyelashes, smiling inwardly to see him shift in his chair again.

This time he leaned toward her and his voice deepened so much that she could almost feel it vibrate against her skin, "Because, I will be imagining tomorrow night, or afternoon if we are lucky."

"Ahhh. So you'll look forward to my cooking that much then," her smile deepened, and he returned it but scoffed.

"The only thing we'll be doing in the kitchen tomorrow is seeing if those curtains are thick enough."

Her cheeks warmed and so did her center. She took a deep breath and turned away slightly. Their teasing banter was one of the things that she enjoyed most with Charles, but at times she wondered if it was proper to be so forthright, even with her future husband and current lover. When she looked back at him, she noticed the wrinkle of concern between his eyes. That would never do. She smiled at him to ease his worry.

"Tell me what we'll do tomorrow night, or afternoon, or even morning if we can get away from the breakfast soon enough," she said and was pleased to see the wrinkle dissipate when his smile widened.

"First, we'll store our provisions in the cupboard, enough to make sure that we won't have to go out for a few days," he began and his thumb stroked over her knuckles thoughtfully.

"Wise man," she nodded, "I certainly don't want to have to get dressed or leave."

He fixed her with another stern look and said, "This is my story, I believe."

"Your story? All alone?" she asked, arching her eyebrow.

He made a low growling noise in his throat, "Frustrating woman. Most certainly not alone, but you asked what we'd do. Do you want me to tell you what I've imagined for months or not?"

She blushed again to think of him imagining this for months; long before they'd ever done anything beyond smile and share books and cups of tea. She nodded.

"I thought that first we'd sit on the settee to have a drink of wine or brandy to soothe our nerves," he continued, "And before you ask, I at least will be nervous. I've never made love to my wife before."

Wife. Husband. Very different from the way she'd felt before marrying Joe. He must have noticed the memory cloud over her eyes, because he became serious, "Elsie, I promise that I would never, that is, I noticed earlier that you seemed concerned when I took you down to the cellar. Surely you know that I will never harm you."

"I do know that, Charles," she replied just as seriously, "Perhaps before I married Joe I would have said the same about him, but you are a very different man, a good man. It's not in your nature to cause harm, especially to a woman. That wasn't what I was thinking."

He turned so that he was facing her more fully, "Then what?"

How could she explain it? She took a deep breath, "Before, when I married Joe, I was just choosing one position over another; housewife instead of housemaid."

"And now?"

"I am choosing you. I would take you in any way that I could have you. I would be your friend or your wife or your mistress if that's all I could be. It's you that I want," she finished with conviction.

He swallowed quickly and looked away before turning his gaze back to her. Without speaking, he stood to his feet and took her glass from her before pulling her to her feet. His arms went around her waist, and he began to sway from side to side.

"Charles Carson, whatever are you about?" she asked laughing as she snuggled into his chest.

He bent to brush his lips over hers gently before deepening the kiss quickly. Brandy, apples, and Charles were all she could taste. He pulled away and met her eyes, "I couldn't think of anything to say to such a lovely sentiment so I thought perhaps we could dance. My ankle kept me from it that rainy night if you remember."

"Dear sweet man," she breathed moving her arms up to rest on his shoulders, "I also seem to remember you telling me you could juggle."

He lifted an eyebrow, "And so I can. Would you like me to release you so that I can demonstrate?"

"Don't you dare," she said, tightening her hold and then she caught her lip between her teeth, "Perhaps a song?"

He bent and brushed his lips over hers again, "I'm determined to break that habit. You'll chew that lip in two."

"That's probably not the best way to do it," she teased before deliberately drawing her bottom lip between her teeth and being rewarded with another kiss.

He chuckled and then started to sing softly in her ear, "'Twas on a Monday morning…."

By the time he reached the course, he was dashing her around the room as though she was a smoothing iron, and Elsie couldn't help laughing breathlessly in surprise. As he sang, "She stole my heart away," he chuckled low in his throat and pulled her tight against him, pressing a hard kiss to her lips.

Elsie nearly jumped out of her skin at the dual clearing of throats from the door. They both turned to the door to see the two cooks watching them with crossed arms and identical smiles. Mrs. Johnstone said with mock severity, "There'll be plenty of time for that later. You need to get us home unless you want to see the bride on her wedding day. It's nearly midnight."

Mrs. Patmore chimed in, "Bad luck that. Wouldn't want to tempt fate would you?"

When Charles still didn't release his hold on her waist, Mrs. Johnstone fixed him with a stern look that Elsie knew was usually reserved for when one of her children, or more often Mr. Johnstone, had misbehaved. Charles continued to meet her eyes with his own sternness for a moment, but then dropped his gaze and reluctantly dropped his hands to his sides.

Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes, "Heavens. You'll be married in less than twelve hours. Surely you can restrain yourselves for that long."

Charles grimaced, "Very well, ladies, if you'll give a moment of privacy, I will say goodnight to my lovely future wife."

This time it was Mrs. Johnstone and Mrs. Patmore who dropped their gazes from Charles's stern one. When they'd closed the door behind them, he turned to her, "And what exactly do you think is so funny?"

Elsie stifled her laugh, "Silly me for ever thinking the cook was interested in you. If she had been then she would know that twelve hours is far too long to wait for one of your kisses."

His mouth twitched up in a half smile, "Then we'll have to make this one last won't we?"

He then proceeded to cover her laughing lips with a kiss that would surely last the night.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	36. A Disappearance

_**Hopefully, more regular updates now. Life is starting to settle back to its usual mildly hectic pace.**_

_**Disclaimer: Not owned by me, but I will sue for custody if JF continues to neglect them.**_

Charles was walking to the church from the Abbey in order to calm his nerves and his stomach. He'd only managed a cup of tea and half of his porridge this morning. He was exceedingly grateful that they'd managed to ensure a very small wedding; himself and Mr. Bates, Elsie and Mrs. Johnstone. The vicar would complete their party. Then there would be a wedding breakfast with the other servants. His shoulders shifted uncomfortably at the thought of Mrs. Crawley and the other members of the family mingling with the servants, but they had all insisted. Mrs. Crawley had grown fond of Elsie over the past few weeks and Elsie had grown equally fond of her new position. She had been glad at the thought of Mrs. Crawley celebrating with them, and Elsie's happiness was his chief concern. Of course, if the mother of the future Earl was present, he could hardly object to the rest of the family being guests.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he wouldn't be completely calm until he and Elsie were safely behind the door of their new cottage. If he had his way, he and Elsie wouldn't see sunlight except through the window for the next three days. Elsie didn't seem opposed to the idea herself. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips when he thought of her teasing banter last night. He would be eternally grateful that she seemed to able to enjoy their teasing and lovemaking. A cloud formed over his thoughts at what that man had done to her. How he had scarred her body and her spirit. He would spend the rest of his life helping her to heal if needed.

As he turned these thoughts over in his mind, he noticed the approach of a motor car. It looked somewhat like Inspector Lewis' vehicle, and he stopped walking as his mind raced over what that might mean.

The car slowed as it approached and before he could acknowledge them, Mr. Crawley leaned out of the rear window, "Was she with you?"

A fist of panic tightened around his heart, and he leaned heavily on the car, "You know very well that I left her on your step last night. It was you who interrupted us."

The young solicitor's frown deepened, "I had hoped perhaps you came back. Her bed's not been slept in."

He was vaguely aware of the car door opening and the Inspector stepping out, taking hold of his arm, and guiding him to the rear seat of the vehicle.

"Mr. Carson, we came here today because we believe," he began but Charles cut him off, focused on only one thing at this point.

"She wouldn't have run away. We had discussed this. Together we said. No matter what in the future it would be together." He watched Mr. Crawley's face carefully, but it was the Inspector who answered him.

"Mr. Carson, none of her clothes are missing. We don't believe she left of her own accord. If you'll just allow me to explain…"

He nearly exploded off the seat, "You don't need to explain anything. You need to find her. If she's out there and harm has come to her, I'll hold it to your account. You should have done something."

The Inspector spoke in a commanding voice, the kind of voice that Charles reserved for misbehaving footmen, "Sit down, Mr. Carson. We are doing something. My sergeant is already searching the village along with your constable. We had to rule out the possibility that she had merely come to you. Now we will find her. That is a promise."

Charles didn't sit down, but he did focus in on the fact that the Inspector had not promised to find her well. With an effort, he tamped down his panic and tried to order his thoughts, "Why are you here? Have you arrested someone?"

The two men darted glances at each other and then the Inspector turned his gaze on him, "Not arrested. No. But we do believe we know who and why. Unfortunately, we just don't know where he is."

Charles's hands clenched into fists, "Perhaps you should tell me."

"Perhaps you should get in the car. We can just as well tell you on the way back to the village," Mr. Crawley took his arm and guided him toward the rear seat.

"Mr. Burns had been married before," the Inspector began after he had set the car in motion and turned back toward the village, "And his first wife died somewhat unexpectedly."

"Nothing too suspicious," Mr. Crawley was quick to add, "She'd been ill, but everyone thought she'd get better, and then she took a turn for the worse."

Charles hesitated for only a moment, Elsie had wanted to keep him out of it, but if it would help… "Elsie told me. Apparently, the woman's son was suspicious and had no love for Mr. Burns."

Mr. Crawley scowled at him, "And just when where you planning on revealing this fact?"

Charles shook his head, "Elsie didn't want him to be involved. She thought he could have nothing to do with it."

The Inspector's hands tightened on the wheel and gave him a severe look in the rear view mirror, "You should have let me decide what was important or not. What she didn't know was that the boy had been dishonorably discharged from the Army. He was desperate for money."

"And he met with an old friend of his mother's. A man who had his own suspicions about what happened years ago," Mr. Crawley turned in his seat so he could see Charles's face.

His confusion must have shown even in the rear view mirror because the Inspector supplied the answer, "Mr. Joseph Tufton of Thirsk."

Charles blanched, "I can see that they have an excellent motive, but surely they would know the way Elsie was treated. She could have had nothing to do with it."

"Peter might believe that, but we don't know about the other fellow," the Inspector said, "And there is another motive."

Here Mr. Crawley spoke again, "Mr. Burns had no will. His property passed entirely to Mrs. Burns on his death. If she in turn has no will, it will go to her heir upon her," he broke off at the fierce look on Charles's face, "well, if anything were to happen to her. Until she is married, that heir is her stepson. After, of course, he would receive nothing."

Charles began to understand more now, "And if she had been convicted of murder or even of being an accessory, then she couldn't have profited by it."

Mr. Crawley nodded, "And the property would have gone to Peter."

"But if she was well clear of any real suspicion," Charles was thinking out loud, "then the only way for Peter to receive the property would be… Won't this thing go any faster?"

"It will," the Inspector said grimly, "But there's no point in getting ourselves killed if we have no idea where she could be."

Charles was gripping the rear of the seat so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Why didn't he act before now? Why wait until just before the wedding? Elsie even saw him when she went to bury Joe. She didn't suspect," his voice wavered slightly and he cleared his throat, "She felt sorry for him. She made me feel sorry for him too."

"Think, Carson," Mr. Crawley said, "Had she ever really been alone since coming to Downton? She was always either with Mother at our home or with you. Maybe she stepped out to clear her mind, and they seized the opportunity of finding her alone."

A thought dawned on him, "The cottage. She might have gone to the cottage. She hinted that she might have a surprise for me after the wedding. I," he blushed and stammered, "well, I thought she meant other things, but perhaps it was something she could have left at the cottage."

As he was speaking, the Inspector turned the car in the direction of the cottages, and Charles noticed that the speed increased considerably.

The Inspector half-smiled at him in the rearview mirror, "Now we have some idea of where we're going. No need to tarry."

Charles agreed and his resolve hardened to do anything possible to find Elsie and punish the men responsible for harming her.

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


	37. A Book

_**Disclaimer: I don't own them, earn nothing from them, and mean them no harm.**_

Charles managed to wait until the car was stopped in front of the cottages, but just barely. He was opening the door of his home before Mr. Crawley and Inspector Lewis were out of the car. Despite their protests behind him, he burst inside and then stood surveying the front room.

It was still a little warmer than outside. Passing his hand over the stove, he could tell there had been a fire there. Three cups were still sitting on the table with the dregs of tea in them. Someone had certainly been here. He stepped further into the room to look for any other changes and noticed leather bound book on the table beside his armchair. Stepping over to the table, he picked it up and found that it was a journal, a good quality one with thick paper. It would be a pleasure to write in. As he started to open the book the two other men came to the door.

The Inspector admonished him, "Mr. Carson, you shouldn't run off like that. What if they had been here?"

Charles turned back to him and nodded toward the table, "They have been. The stove is still warm. They've not been gone for long."

"What's that you have?" Mr. Crawley asked.

"This wasn't here yesterday. It must be Elsie's gift," he said and then opened it to see that there was an inscription on the inner cover. When he read it, his eyes clouded momentarily and he swayed slightly. Inspector Lewis noticed his distress and came over to take the book from him.

"Charles and Elsie Carson, 14 November 1913, To finish our story," he read aloud and turned to Charles with a curious expression.

Charles waved his hand and said, "A promise that I made to her. I just hope that now…" His throat tightened around the words.

The Inspector spoke softly, "This is not the end, Mr. Carson."

Charles nodded and took the book back from him to study it closer. "There's a page missing from the front."

"I believe this may be it," Mr. Crawley had been examining the room while they spoke and walked toward him from the mantle, holding out a folded piece of paper.

Taking it from him with the steadiest hand he could manage, he scanned the short message and growled low in his throat, "They must have made her write this. She would never leave willingly."

Mr. Crawley took the paper back from his hand and scanned the contents, "Liverpool and then America." He raised his eyes to study Charles's face carefully, "Are you quite sure Mr. Carson? She had already fled once, and I believe she would do anything if she thought it would spare you harm."

His reply was fierce as he snatched the paper back from the other man's hand, "She would know now that this would do anything but spare me hurt. No; they must have made her write this so I wouldn't look for her."

He walked back into the kitchen deep in thought, "But then why leave the cups on the table. Surely they'd want it to look as though she left of her own accord." His thoughts broke off when he noticed that a drawer was slightly ajar. Cautiously, he opened it fully and his heart began to race when he noticed the missing item.

"There's a knife missing," he turned back to the Inspector in a panic, "Surely they wouldn't do anything here, would they?"

Inspector Lewis's gaze shifted to the back door, "Perhaps she ran?"

Charles started in that direction, but Mr. Crawley stopped him, "Mr. Carson, before we go out there, we should check the other room."

He glanced at the bedroom door. If they had done something to her in there…

The Inspector opened the door but stepped back to allow Charles to enter first. Charles took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment to settle his nerves as much as possible and then stepped through the door. His first impression was that it was much cooler in here, and his second was that the bed thankfully looked undisturbed. He crossed to the wardrobe to see that his clothes were still there along with an interesting looking box tied with a lacy bow. The Inspector and Mr. Crawley had followed him into the room and the Inspector spoke from the doorway, "Had you left the window open?"

The curtains blew inward at that moment, and Charles walked toward the window as he answered, "No, we certainly did not. Why would we have done that at this time of the year?"

He pushed the curtains out of the way and what he saw on the window sill caused a cold fury. He turned back to the Inspector, "There's blood here."

Mr. Crawley spoke, "There's no need to jump to conclusions. That could be from anyone."

"Including Elsie," he snapped, turning to him sharply, "We need to start searching outside now."

As he spoke, he started toward the door with determination. Just as he stepped through to the other room, he heard the back door bang open. A tall young man looked over at him in surprise, and Charles glanced down to see that there was blood on his hands and shirt. In a rage, he was to the man in two long strides and had his shirtfront twisted in his fist. He slammed the man against the wall with one hand and hit him with all his force on the chin with the other, once, twice, three times in quick succession. The man raised his hands to push against his chest, but Charles brought his knee up into his groin. He hadn't fought a man since he'd been in the halls and there would certainly be no fighting fair, not when this man could have ended the life of the woman he loved. With that thought his mind clouded with fury and he gripped his throat, squeezing. Vaguely he could feel the Inspector and Mr. Crawley pulling at his arms and back as the man slowly stopped struggling. He ignored them, knowing that he might hang for this, but he would do so gladly if it meant bringing justice for Elsie.

Then he heard something that caused him to instantly release the man, dropping him to the ground.

"Charles, Charles, stop. Let him go. I'm here. I'm fine…"

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	38. A Cuppa

_**Nearly done. **_

_**Disclaimer: Not owned by me and I earn nothing from them.**_

Warm. Elsie was finally warm. She leaned back against Charles as she waited for the water to boil. They were finally, thankfully alone, at least for a little while. The Inspector would be back inside before long, although hopefully she had answered all his questions. She squeezed the hand on her waist and was brought out of her reverie by a sharp intake of breath.

She was instantly contrite, "Oh, Charles, I'm sorry. I didn't think." Lifting the hand, she studied the bruises on his knuckles carefully and brushed her lips across them. "I wish we had some ice."

"I think I prefer you," he turned his hand over and traced the outline of her jaw and lips with his thumb. He pulled her tighter against his chest and bent to kiss her cheek, "You have no idea, Elsie. I thought you were hurt or worse. When he came in with blood on his hands, I couldn't control…"

His voice trailed off and his uninjured hand on her hip tightened into a fist. She turned her head to press her lips to his cheek and used her fingers to loosen his fist. "I know. I saw. Remember? A broken nose and jaw, I'm sure. The Inspector didn't seem too concerned, though."

"Well, you said it was him who cut your arm and at the very least he's an accessory to kidnapping," he said, looking down at the bandage. He had grown very still, as he always did when he was worried about her. "And you? Are you concerned?"

She took a deep breath. "I thought you could be like that, but it's quite different to seeing you like that," she admitted, "You were fierce, but if you're asking whether I'm concerned about you hurting Peter then I'm not."

He placed a kiss on the top of her head, "Thank you for that."

"Charles, he may not have been the leader, but he still… He tried to talk me into leaving peacefully, made me write that note, but he was prepared to force me. And surely he guessed what Tufton might do." She shuddered again as she thought back over the events of the morning.

He opened his mouth to speak, but then the kettle began to steam so he released her and lifted it from the stove to wet the tea. They busied themselves for a few moments with milk and sugar, and she found that the familiar movements helped to calm her even more.

When they had finished, Charles turned back to her and glanced into her eyes before looking down at the ground with a frown, "Are you quite sure you told us everything?"

She looked up at him sharply, and he continued, a little surer of himself, "It's just that it seemed to me that you might be holding something back. I thought you might still be trying to protect the boy."

Her mouth went dry. That wasn't it at all, but she still didn't want to tell him. She was embarrassed, ashamed.

He cleared his throat, took a sip of his tea, and looked out the window, "Very well. I see. I won't force you then."

The note of hurt that she detected in his voice was what made her speak. She could never bear hurting him.

She spoke very quietly, studying the floor, "I was afraid, Charles, terrified. Just like before, when Joe…"

He turned back to her, and she heard him set his cup down carefully and felt him lean toward her, but he kept his arms at his sides. She continued, "I had felt so safe. I came here this morning on my own and didn't even think about any danger. Then, when they came through the door, I thought that I could still control the situation. Tufton seemed like a weak, fat man. I thought that I could get away."

Charles reached out to grasp her fingers, and he squeezed them gently, encouragingly. He had heard the story when she told the Inspector, of course, but she had been detached then, unfeeling. Now, she was nearly trembling with emotion. She was glad he didn't pull her in her arms. Now that she had started, she needed to finish.

"I wrote the note and then convinced them to let me pack a bag," she said.

He narrowed his eyes. She hadn't quite told this part to the Inspector. She had merely said that she went to the bedroom to go out the window.

"I thought I might find something in there. That I could come back out and get away somehow…"

"Tufton followed me into our bedroom Charles. _Our_ bedroom. When he grabbed me, I realized that even though he was fat and weak, he was still strong enough to do whatever he wanted with me, and that no matter what I did, I couldn't stop him. And he would do it in a place where I had felt loved and safe," she finished in a voice that had dropped to a whisper.

"That's why you went out the window?" he asked, eyes drawn low.

She laughed bitterly, "Yes, he was too fat to follow, I suppose, but still if Peter hadn't come out the door after him…"

He pulled her into his arms at this point, and she sank gratefully against him. She cried silently, shaking in his arms.

"Love, my dear, dear love, if something had happened to you, I don't know what I would have done," he pressed his lips to her cheeks and then to hers.

She took his handkerchief from his pocket to dry her tears, and he chuckled, "Help yourself."

She looked down at the handkerchief and laughed softly but her amusement faded quickly, "Thank you."

"Elsie, is there anything else?" he asked, and she met his concerned gaze.

"I had felt so strong," she said, "That I could take care of myself, but then a fat man invades my home, our home, our sanctuary. Will I never be safe?"

"We," he answered her, "We will be strong together and safe."

"I've already said that I can't rely solely on your protection," she started to protest, but he cut her off.

"I don't mean just that," he said, "I mean that we are stronger together. I would have just bulled through the situation and likely gotten hurt or killed, but you were smarter. Together I think we'll do better than we would if we were alone."

She took his cheeks in her hands so that she could pull him down and kissed him fiercely, "Alone is not an option for me anymore."

"No, no," he said, pulling her closer and pressing his forehead to hers, "I had a taste of what that might be like this morning. It's not an option for me either."

She sighed, "We've missed our morning appointment though. Do you think anyone would notice if we never left the cottage again?"

There was a coughing sound from the back door, and they both turned in that direction, "That would make it a bit difficult to meet with the vicar. We've nearly finished here with the, um, well with Mr. Tufton. I thought I could drive you to the church. It might not be the wedding you envisioned, but …"

Elsie looked at Charles. He had taken off his waistcoat and jacket since both were stained with bloody handprints. Then she looked down at her own rumpled clothes. She wouldn't have time to change into the suit she'd chosen with such care, the color that Charles loved.

Charles watched her patiently, lifting his eyebrows at her, "I've another coat in the wardrobe. My second best, but I could make do with that if I would have the best wife."

Her mind was made up, she would much rather have the proper husband than the proper dress.

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	39. A Dress

_**Sorry for the long delay. The first of summer is incredibly hectic. Hopefully another chapter to follow soon. They will get to the wedding with no further delay, but I thought an explanatory chapter was in order. **_

_**Disclaimer: Not mine, if they were all would be cricket whites, rainbows, and blue bedrooms.**_

Heel to toe. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. Wall. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. Heel to toe. Pivot. Repeat. Charles paused in his pacing to glance at the stairs then turned to glare at the Inspector. If the man hadn't suggested that Elsie should change, Charles would be a married man by now. He sighed and softened his glare with a half smile. He couldn't truly blame the man. Elsie's clothes had been rumpled and her sleeve torn. Charles's fingers clenched into fists, and he vowed again to have another talk with the boy who'd injured her, but then he remembered the way Elsie's face had brightened at the thought of changing her dress and pushed all thoughts of violence from his mind.

The Inspector sounded far more relaxed than Charles felt, "You needn't worry Mr. Carson. No harm will come to her now. Mr. Tufton won't be doing anyone any harm to anyone ever again, and the boy can barely walk straight after the thrashing you gave him."

He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably as he remembered his deplorable loss of control and turned the conversation, "I don't like leaving her alone," he explained, frowning and glancing again at the stairs.

"She's not alone. Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Johnstone are with her," the Inspector admonished him and then shook his head, "and I doubt she'd want your help dressing for her wedding."

Charles rolled his shoulders uncomfortably again and tugged on his cuffs. There was no doubt about that. She had even tried to insist that he and the Inspector wait for her at the church. He had quashed that suggestion immediately. Tradition be damned. He wasn't going to be out of earshot of her for at least the next few days, if not the rest of his life.

He narrowed his eyes at Inspector Lewis, "You know that Tufton wanted to attack her personally. He followed her into the bedroom."

The other man sighed and scratched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was uncomfortable. Charles had noticed the habit often over the past few weeks. "I know. The boy told us. She wasn't harmed though."

The last wasn't quite a question, but Charles answered it anyway with a grunt, "I wouldn't call a cut on the arm being unharmed, but at least she wasn't," he hesitated as his throat closed around the words and named it as directly as he was able, "attacked in an intimate way."

The Inspector studied him for a moment before nodding, "She was cut when they first came through the door. The boy insists it was an accident. They followed her into the cottage and tried to surprise her, but she came at them with a knife. He cut her taking it away from her."

"Don't tell me he's blaming her!" Charles exclaimed and then moderated his tone with a quick glance at the stairs. "They attacked her in our home," he hissed.

"Which I did point out to the lad," the Inspector agreed soothingly, "while holding my handkerchief to his nose to stop the bleeding." Here he fixed Charles with another steady look before continuing, "He's, of course, blaming Tufton for everything, says that Tufton killed Joe and was the one who suggested 'removing' Mrs. Burns."

Charles's hands tightened again. He wished, not for the first time today, that Elsie had let him chase that deplorable man out of the tea shop that day.

"Did he really think that Tufton would just let Elsie sail away on a ship for the United States?"

The Inspector scrubbed the side of his nose again, "That will be a question for another day. Just be glad that he didn't have the chance to do anything else."

A shiver ran through Charles as all his worst fears from this morning came back to him. His was dismayed at the hoarseness of his voice on his next comment, "I'm still not clear on what he had against Elsie or even Mr. Burns for that matter."

Inspector Lewis shook his head, "For Mr. Burns it seems the motive was primarily revenge. He had fancied the first Mrs. Burns and never believed her death was entirely natural."

"But still…," Charles frowned in confusion.

"For Mrs. Burns, it was entirely financial. He wanted the boy to have a clear claim to the farm so that he could pay him regularly, to keep quiet of course."

Charles shook his head in frustration, "She would have given him the farm. She had no desire for it. If he'd only asked, perhaps even if he hadn't asked."

The Inspector put his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and cocked his head, "Selfish men can never understand unselfish motives."

He shook his head angrily again and started to speak. Whatever he'd been ready to say fled from his head when he heard a door opening at the top of the stairs. Turning toward the sound, his eyes widened, and his mind went completely blank.

Elsie walked slowly down the stairs. He couldn't take his gaze from her face. His eyes might have traveled south once or perhaps twice, but she surely wouldn't mind her soon to be husband admiring her figure, would she?

She began, apologetically, "I'm sorry that it took so long, but…"

"Blue," he said, eyes still fixed on her face.

"Charles?" The corners of her eyes crinkled in confusion.

"Your dress and your eyes are blue and beautiful and wonderful," he said, stepping toward the stairs so that he could take her in his arms. Before he could reach her, however, he was stopped by Mrs. Johnstone clearing her throat.

He looked up into her sharp eyes and thought better of his actions. Elsie would be his wife in less than half an hour after all. Surely he could restrain himself for just a little while longer.

Then he returned his eyes back to Elsie's, and she was looking up at him with such warmth that all thought of restraint fled. He wrapped his arms around her and bent to meet her lips.

Now he heard both the Inspector and Mrs. Johnstone clear their throats. He broke away and turned to look at the Inspector who was looking determinedly away from them.

"Mr. Carson, I believe that there is the small matter of vows to be said before you get to that point," he said to the wall.

Charles nearly growled in frustration but let his hands drop to his sides. He lifted his eyebrows at Elsie, "Vows."

"Vows," she agreed and took his arm.

He looked at the Inspector as they started toward the door, "How fast can that motor car go?"

_**Reviews are welcome as always**_


	40. An Impropriety

_**Only one more chapter to go for these guys. I will try to post it soon. Thank you to all who have read and reviewed. I've been amazed at how much others seemed to enjoy this incredibly AU story. Thank you.**_

_**Disclaimer: For the 40**__**th**__** time, I DON'T OWN THEM AND EARN NOTHING FROM THEM! But if TPTB don't make better use of them, I'm launching a raiding party.**_

Instead of meeting Charles at the altar, they walked down the aisle together to the waiting vicar. As unconventional as it was, it seemed completely natural for them. No one gave her to Charles. They came to each other freely. They were equal partners, alike but different—a matched pair. He was the quiet, steady strength to her quick, hot temper. She was the softness that smoothed the edges of his rigid rules. Now, they would be joined in a new unit, a couple, a family that would somehow be more together than either of them could ever be apart.

The ceremony was simple. The vicar spoke the bare minimum of words to bless their union. Charles repeated the vows in his rumbling voice, a half smile on his lips, no doubt remembering the night when he'd whispered the same words against her bare skin. He slipped the silver band on her finger and lifted her hand to kiss the token of his love.

She spoke her vows to him directly from her heart. Loving and cherishing this dear sweet man would be the most natural thing she'd ever done. Her voice caught on the last words, "until parted by death." She swallowed down the lump that formed in her throat and blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes at the thought of that hopefully far distant time. She slipped the thicker silver band onto Charles's finger, and he squeezed her hand to hold it close. There was a faint wrinkle of concern between his brows, but she dissipated it with a small smile, promising herself to explain to him later.

The warmth of Charles's smile and hand distracted her so much that she nearly missed the vicar pronouncing them husband and wife. Charles's smile, however, grew even wider while he bent to seal their vows with a kiss. It was unfortunately but appropriately a very proper kiss and she couldn't resist saying so softly beside his ear.

His eyes frowned at her, but his lips wouldn't stop smiling. He bent again to whisper in her ear, "Impropriety will come in due time, Mrs. Carson. First we must sign the register."

Mrs. Carson. Mrs. Charles Carson. Her own smile widened.

The vicar led them to the register and with a few strokes of the pen the final business of the day was completed. The Inspector had them out the door and in his car in just the barest of moments. She was still so distracted by Charles's hand clutching hers and thumb rubbing across her new ring that it took her a few moments to realize that the car was going in the wrong direction.

"Inspector Lewis, the cottage…," she leaned forward so that he could hear her, but Charles tugged her back.

"Can a man not surprise his wife from time to time?" he said with a lift of his brows.

She rolled her eyes at him, "Certainly, fifteen minutes is far too long to go without a surprise."

He sighed, "We, that is, I thought that perhaps a few days away might be for the best. The Inspector was kind enough to agree."

"As long as I know where you are, Mr. Carson," Inspector Lewis chimed in.

She pulled her hand away from his and spoke in the lowest tones she could manage to avoid the Inspector overhearing, "Mr. Carson, did it ever occur to you to discuss this with your wife? The partner you have chosen to spend your life with."

The tips of his ears turned bright pink and he attempted to match her same tones, "I was trying to spare the feelings of the woman who not five minutes ago promised to love, honor, and _obey_ me."

"Obey is it?" she asked archly, "Is that all you want? An obedient woman?"

Charles glanced toward the front seat and met the Inspector's eyes in the rearview mirror. Elsie saw the slight shrug the other man gave before sinking a little lower in the seat. He turned back to her and sighed again before closing his eyes. She almost thought she saw his lips moving as he counted silently.

When he finally spoke, it was not to her, "Inspector, could you please stop the car? I need to ask Mrs. Carson a question privately. We'll only be a moment. I know how valuable your time is."

"Of course, Mr. Carson," the Inspector said as he brought the car to a stop, "Happy to be of service sir." The man sounded as though he could barely control his laughter. Charles scowled at the back of his head but stepped out of the vehicle and offered her his hand. She entertained the thought of remaining in the car for a moment, but only for a moment. The Inspector would no doubt lose patience with them soon.

Charles drew her arm through his elbow and walked them quickly to the side of the lane, putting a large tree between them and the car. As soon as they were hidden from sight, he turned to her and pulled her to him for the deepest, most dizzying, most passionate kiss she'd ever experienced. He released her for a moment only to follow with another. She fell back on her heels and clutched at the lapels of his jacket to maintain her balance.

"Charles Carson, what are you…" He cut her off with another kiss and now had her back pressed against the tree. She was grateful for the extra support.

He pulled back and said very deliberately, punctuating his words with more kisses, "I do not want an obedient woman. I want Elsie Carson, the single most beautiful, exasperating, intelligent, and stubborn woman I have ever met." He finished by pressing his lips to hers again for another dizzying kiss while drawing her as tight against him as was likely possible.

This time when he pulled back, Elsie pushed at his shoulder to keep him from kissing her again. "Charles, not everything can be solved by kissing." She was embarrassed at how breathless she sounded. No doubt her cheeks were flushed as well.

He was positively grinning. Smug man. Had she ever thought him sweet? She would have to punish him later. The thought brought a smile to her lips. No doubt he'd enjoy that as well.

He didn't try to kiss her again but didn't stop grinning or release his hold on her either. "I'm sure that it won't solve everything, but I thought a bit of impropriety was in order. You did seem disappointed in the proper kiss."

Dreadful man. Throwing her own words back at her. She started to speak again, but he placed a single finger over her lips.

"Elsie, I merely thought to give you a few days to forget what happened there. I meant no harm by it and didn't think you'd mind the surprise. If you wish, we'll go back to the cottage."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Perhaps her response had been a bit harsh. She had no doubt that Charles would always act in what he thought was her best interest. That was the problem.

"Charles, I know that you meant good, but you must let me decide for myself what is best for me. I won't ever be able to forget what happened. If we don't go back now and replace some of those images with better ones, I don't know if I'll be able to go back later."

He looked intently into her eyes and then nodded shortly, "Give me a bit of time Elsie. I'll learn to make these decisions with you and not for you. I've been on my own for a long time."

She straightened his tie and smoothed back the curl that had escaped, "Lucky you that I'm a patient and obedient wife."

He nodded and then turned her around so that he could brush the dust off the back of her dress. There seemed to be an excessive amount on her bottom. "Lucky you that I'm a properly improper man."

She caught his hand and arched an eyebrow at him, "Lucky indeed."

_**Reviews are always welcome.**_


	41. An End

_**Finally the end of this journey into an alternate universe. Thank all of you for your reviews, favorites, etc. I have greatly appreciated and been encouraged by them. I wish I could keep writing these two forever, but all things must end.**_

March 19, 1914

Charles paused when he came within sight of the cottage he shared with his wife. There had been a smile on his lips since he'd started his walk from Downton, and it had only gotten wider as he approached home. Home. Home because that is where Elsie was. Home because that is where he really lived. For years he had thought contentment and fulfillment were to be found in the work that he did, but now he knew a deeper contentment that revolved around her. It was what they were together that truly fulfilled him.

With a shake of his head at his own sentimentalism, he started walking again and with a quicker pace. No need to dally when he had three full days together to spend with his wife, and not just any days. This was a special occasion. He wondered if she remembered the importance of this date. If she didn't, he had every intention of reminding her.

He pushed open the door to see that she wasn't in the front room, although her coat and hat were here. So she was in the bedroom. That was a good sign. Setting his small package down on the table, he turned to remove his own coat and hat so that he could steal into the next room as quietly as possible. A voice behind him surprised him out of his plans, however.

"Will someone else be joining you or do you need a table for one?" A soft Scottish burr asked.

He turned around to look at her with an amused smile but decided to play along with just a minor alteration in the script, "I am alone, but as I have nothing else to occupy myself this afternoon, I was hoping to entice you to join me for a bit of company."

"Well, sir," she said, smile tugging at her lips as well, "I don't know if that will be possible. I am a very busy woman."

He stepped closer to her and leaned forward but kept his hands clasped behind his back, "And there's nothing I could do to persuade you?"

"Well, you do seem like a kind gentleman," she said, studying his eyes, "Perhaps I might be able to find a moment here or there."

He reached around her for the box from the table and said, "So if I were to ask you to share this piece of apple tart with me over a cuppa, nice and cozy-like, you wouldn't object?"

She dropped all pretense as a laugh escaped, "You'll never let me forget that will you? Of course I'll share that with you, but I hope you're hungry because there are three of those to share."

He grinned, "I am hungry but not for apple tart just yet. And how did we come by three of them?"

She walked over to the kitchen window and drew the curtains closed, the thick curtains. He admired her swaying hips and cleared his throat. She turned to smile at him over her shoulder, and he could see that she clearly knew the reaction she was causing.

"I presume that is Mrs. Patmore's?" she asked, attention back on the window. His mind was so preoccupied that it took a moment to register that she was asking about the tart. He nodded dumbly and walked toward her, determined on his path.

She let out a small cry of surprise when he grasped her hips and drew her back against him. He bent and placed gentle kisses on her neck just below her left ear.

"Mmmmm," she tilted her head to give him better access and then said, "Mrs. Johnstone sent one today as well. She remembered."

He grunted. "One what?" he whispered against her neck as his fingers searched for the fastening of her skirt.

"An apple tart," she said in exasperation and then guided his hand to the buttons on the side of her hip.

"Ahhh," he sighed in satisfaction both in the answer to his question and in finding his destination. He started to work loose the buttons of her skirt. "But that only makes two."

She leaned back again, pressing her bottom tighter to his groin. "Do you have no faith in my skills?"

His arm went around her waist and his free hand brushed the underside of her breast, "I have every faith in your skills, but I did not think those skills extended to making a crust."

She turned around in his arms and stretched her arms lazily around his neck before pressing her lips gently to his. When she pulled back, she whispered, "I've been practicing."

He chuckled softly and pressed his lips and his body tighter to hers. After a few more moments, he said, "Practice does make perfect."

Her hands dropped to his tie, working it loose and expertly pulling the studs from his collar. "It does indeed, and I've had an excellent teacher."

A small surge of pride welled up in him, but she popped it with a brisk addition, "Mrs. Bird has been most helpful."

"Mrs. Bird?"

"With my crusts," she clarified smugly.

"Ahh. I was talking about a different type of practice," he said, looking at her with a frown.

She pressed her hips toward him and pulled his face closer to hers, "We'll have plenty of time for that this afternoon. I think it's going to rain."

"Rain? Surely not," he smiled, pressing her against the counter, "The sun was blazing as I came home. Not a cloud in the sky."

"I think it's definitely going to rain and us with no umbrella," she said, stretching up to meet his lips.

He bent to bring his lips closer to hers and forgot all thought of apple tart or rain or anything but his beautiful wife for the next few hours.

**The End**

_**Reviews are welcome as always.**_


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